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Laying in white folds and wishing To be paid by mail.  He will see the wooden pin glued to our white box.   A pin that no longer snaps nor springs down to lock  its soft splintered jaws.   It works with what it has not trying To be what it once was when it hung And sprung  more then its weight of wet clothing in the yard.
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Dec 10, 2024
Dec 10, 2024 at 11:47 AM UTC
Mornin poem 1
Laying in white folds and wishing To be paid by mail.  He will see the wooden pin glued to our white box.   A pin that no longer snaps nor springs down to lock  its soft splintered jaws.   It works with what it has not trying To be what it once was when it hung And sprung  more then its weight of wet clothing in the yard.
michael-parish
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Dec 10, 2024
Dec 10, 2024 at 11:47 AM UTC
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