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Five Goslings
Fledging at the speed of light
They patter like tap-dancers
Banqueting on chick-crumb
Soon, stately as Aldermen, and
Ripping at grass like tigers
They'll face into the rain
Abruptly the salad days will end
No more feinting at the post-man
Come Christmas they'll hiss in vain
Wednesday 29th April 2020 11:19 am
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