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A second hand bicycle was all the master could afford, when he came to teach in our country school. After years of cycling the four miles in the rain, it disjointed. The saddle sat loosely, padded with papers and rags during lunch hour the boys loved to pull it apart, leaving the saddle at an angle that made a pyramid on the well-worn seat., it was all they could do to get back at him, as he lashed their growing hands with the sally rod. PUBLISHED in PERFUME OF THE SOIL, SWAN PRESS, DUBLIN l999

Copyright © | Year Posted 2015

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Date: 2/20/2015 12:56:00 PM
Thank you Rajat for responding to my poem, Mary
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Date: 2/11/2015 10:15:00 AM
Oh enjoyed it Mary..God bless
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