But I knew when I was young That green hills don't grow. My friends and I, with our bright rubber balls, Burst to the litany of cocks on the wind, Till, brilliant as the sun, we hillocked home at dusk. The fingers of sand were fine words To the robins in our feet, and we danced, Beating, blazing, in the flames that we caught And rolled into mud statues with hysterical bellies. From the trees, we threw stones. I was home in the mouth of my mother's back door When the dinner-bell dried out The sweat in my shirt. Later I would sit by the chair with a book And learn That green hills don't grow.
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Warren Wedin firstname.lastname@example.org