The Cantata of Cones
Needles pointed green thatch suspend above slots
of ovalised brown, pecked by beaks in times of bleak
Whirling while twirling frosted breezes caress finely
Cause a vibration a through space of Venturi prism
A song of near neat silent slightly audible theme
A turn of cricked heads, on angled necks, and
It has past, muffled now and silent in season
A rare Cantata of Cones.
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