The wind and the sun,
the moon and the stars,
blew with her heart
a well-tuned flute.
A rose each morning
fresh as the dew,
up early frying
the bacon and bisquits.
Diming the lights
she pulled sheets tight;
a kiss on the cheek
was surely in order.
Throughout the forest
her voice reached far:
"Come on home, boys,
it's time for supper".
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