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I Know It's Spring ©

Bruce Clark Dick
Forfar, Scotland
2008

I know it's spring, when I hear my neighbour sing,
He's bloody awful, no Pavarotti there.
Though he sports the paunch, and the thinning hair.

Out comes the paint pot, and the big wide brush,
His torturous aria, kills the morning hush.
He paints his fence, a luminous green,
His shed, the colour, well it's obscene.

He'll be in full flow, come the summer,
What a BUMMER!



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