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Cycles
By Charles Albano ©

Friday is our parakeet
He lives with us on Birdland Street
That pretty bird all green and white
Pruned out some feathers late last night

The feathers drifted to the floor
Where grandma swept them out the door
Then Fido spread them all around
And they wafted back without a sound

She found them all still lying there
And pulled out more of her grey hair
"I know I swept them!" she recalled
"By rights, that bird should now be bald!"

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