How do I tell of that time
When expectations weren't prime?
We tumbled into the hay (that)
They were making in the sunshine
Sweet rolling fun, undeterred
Looking, yet not accepting,
That a future may lie ahead,
Ahead of this free-rolling mess.
Hay is now thresh,
Gripping and forgotten,
Rustling quietly beneath
Traveling, growing feet.
Out with old, in with new,
A fresh brew flows through,
Flooding halls and doorways,
Reuniting thresh with hay.
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