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I’m the king of the dinosaurs, number one reptile,tyrannosaurus rex can’t touch my style.I’m dressed to kill, got the sharpest suit,
The dinosaurs are on the march again.They have trampled across the terrace overnight,Leaving green, veined footprints in their wake.Now they lurk in the undergrowth;
The willow and the windare natural dancing partners;look how the willow weepswith the joy of movement,skillfully rooted to the spot.
There is a place (believe me,
she said) where if, if
you go beyond
the street lights, to the lane's end,
The seagulls are doing their dance again – Wings clasped to their sides, they stare up the street.Up and down, up and down, go their knobbly pink knees;
Standing by the river, my face grewinto a flat fish and floated offto a lily pad, and I was lonelywithout myself, without my twin.
Spring is baby,bright, fresh and new,gurgling with the melting snow,singing with the first cuckoo.
At dawn, she climbs over the horizonto slink between the curtainsand rest her head on your pillow.
...not white like the snow
more moon-panther or silvery cloud-cat
with her ripple-patterns melting as (oh,
but she's beautiful) you stare
Take an apple. Chop it into quarters.Count out three. These represent the lakesthat nestle inside countries, all the snaking rivers joined with seas – the blue that’s water.