upon a frosty winter morn
Time will quicken as days grow long
I shall toke from a tarry bong
Mother Jug has blown its top
I shan't be rolling this years crop
Shotguns are out but I don't care
I'll smoke a pipe and let down my hair
Buzzing with friends and soaking suds
Pills aplenty for next summer's buds
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As you may well can tell, not much to talk about today.
This is the final Sunday of Autumn, 2010; make it a high one, my friends.
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