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Through my
finger
streaked double pane,
From a gray wool sky,
Whence I heard the tire
screech
And the stray dog howl;
A pillow fight feather
fluff Frantically falls; Snuggle cover for the lone oak that scratches the fleece from the clouds. It snows less around the widow peeking steeple, chased by flakes across the way. My lord! All but obscure Are the white patched razorbacks Of the nearby Faraway Hills. |
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