Park Gnomes
The last leaves fall
In gusts of wind
And little old men
Sere and thinned,
Little old men
Tattered and brown
Rake the leaves
As they fall down —
Rake the leaves into autumn fires,
Old, old leaves on their funeral pyres.
In gusts of wind
And little old men
Sere and thinned,
Little old men
Tattered and brown
Rake the leaves
As they fall down —
Rake the leaves into autumn fires,
Old, old leaves on their funeral pyres.
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