A matutine mizzle
Thy calentivay
Those days decay
Grading to grey
And she a nelipot
Once rousted by vines
That trail all over
The alpines high
Beauteous O beastous
Tall aestival pines
A tale did render
Of many a mile
Nor nother breeze
Her towering cease
Nor nother wrench
Her ticker receives
©LIL ARCHA
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