Though my worth as a writer i often do doubt
There are no shortage of things for one to write about
The birds in the Parkland just across the way
Are chirping and whistling for to greet the new day.
Though eventually the Reaper will catch up with me
I feel grateful another day I've lived to see
The sun o'er the hill like a giant ball rise red
It looks very like a warm day is ahead.
The one i have loved since i was a young boy
The beauty of Nature for all to enjoy
The silver billed magpies songsters of renown
Their flute like notes echoing in the park of the town.
As a writer even minor fame i have not known
And the rhymes i do pen i can claim as my own
Though with everyone them i would like to share
Still I'm not a poet and poets are rare.
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