~ The Poet's Place Cafe~

My everyday task is getting out of bed.

MY DAYS.

I get out of bed
Ideas in my head
Of what I must do,
There’s a thing or two.

The lawn I might mow,
Grass so fast does grow.
Rake leaves if it’s Fall,
Those trees are so tall.

Then comes Winter’s cold.
And I’m getting old.
Nothing done is great,
I’m seventy eight.



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