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Of My 33rd Birthday
Those that speak of the grey morning Dream would say it's not the woman Singing but the song wafted Into the air like a thin slice Of butter on the breakfast roll Those that speak of waking dreamless Hear the crow go back to sleep And dream throwing a stone at the crow Or dream ducks with silent squawks Or thrushes with suspended whistles The crow crows at the break of light Who would say it has inclinations Scares easily of squawking ducks Head-on thrush collisions, . It's none of these but myself Turning thirty-three on a grey morning