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The old man is sleeping in his bed.
The tornado rages around him,
Yet he remains deep in the bowels of slumber.
The wind rips away at the shingles on the roof,
It’s clawing frantically at the windows.
The roar snaps the door in two,
And the tornado scrambles in.

First, it rattles all the pans in the kitchen,
It flips the fridge and topples the teacups.
In the living room, it shreds the pillows,
And shatters the television.
It then travels upstairs to the old man’s room,
Still sleeping and snoring completely undisturbed.

The tornado swirls around his bed, lifts him up,
And spins him around like a wild top.
Frustrated by his restfulness, the storm leaves,
To shed its terror upon another home
In this neighborhood of rich estates.

Finally, the old man wakes up
Unaware of his surroundings
And of the events that just occurred.
He crawls over the furniture and broken glass
Then blames the mess on his maid.

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