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April 4, 2010 | Iowa,Spring

Listen up, yo. I’m sure you think of yourselves like this. Sorta poetic and all.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise.

I’ll tell you what, though. You keep trying to build a nest in my dryer vent? I’ll be singing this song.

Sing a song of sixpence,
A pocket full of rye.
Four and twenty blackbirds,
Baked in a pie.

Fair warning.

Posted by Becky @ 7:20 pm | 3 Comments  


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