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Apples Are Free Pickin' some apples atop of a tree, I love it best when apples are free. To Johnson's farm, the forbidden fruit, A pounding heart, I fear the old coot. A posted sign says, stay out of here! Apples are calling, no time for fear. Farmer came runnin' shotgun in hand, I could not see him through leaves that span. Enemy closes, he lets out a shout, A race for the fence, a blast rings out. Pellets of rock salt stinging my hide, Apples aren't free, the price was my pride |
Additional Notes:
This poem is resubmitted after a complete revision. Thanks to those on The Poetic Link
for their constructive critism I have followed your advice and hope the poem is more enjoyable this time.
The special words are: [Pickin'] for picking, [runnin'] for running.
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