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Poem

Spring is baby,
bright, fresh and new,
gurgling with the melting snow,
singing with the first cuckoo.

Give The Ball to the Poet
Poem

We don' have a Springtime like some folk
Who live in dem colder place,
but we have a time when de soft rain come,
an' tease open de seedcase
o' de poincianna and de trumpet tree,