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John Edward Smallshaw
Poems
Aug 2019
Comments section
We can pick peonies until the cows come home.
nothing can grow unless you first let it go,
but there's some have to hold on
I
think they've got gold on
their minds.
The forty-niners,
now
they were miners
and some were minors who
looked into mirrors
and saw themselves growing old.
The flowers look nice, dear.
Written by
John Edward Smallshaw
69/Here and now
(69/Here and now)
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