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The woods

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Once, twice, and then a third
He swings his ax without a word
over this year he prepares for this time
so here i wrote him this little rhyme
a man in the woods without any fear
his whole body hurts but he sheds not a tear
with ax in hand he uses his might
on an old hickory stump that puts up a fight
the wind will blow down his icy chilled back
but there's his chopped wood all in a stack
"the winters are cold" he thinks to himself
"but there"s wood in my fire, and food on my self"



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