It makes a man think.
What does? It.
It makes a man relax
In his trousers and pull plants.
The plants, he considers,
But he does not think
Because it is not present
Just then: it’s gone off to get
The mower, although that’s
Impossible. What a strange life,
It pokes him in the gullet to say,
And the line of ants parts
And the sky coughs up a cloud
Or two for consideration.
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