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The Moons the North Winds Cooky

 The Moon's the North Wind's cooky.
He bites it, day by day, Until there's but a rim of scraps That crumble all away.
The South Wind is a baker.
He kneads clouds in his den, And bakes a crisp new moon that .
.
.
greedy North .
.
.
Wind .
.
.
eats .
.
.
again!

Poem by Vachel Lindsay
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