Tragedy
The field is wet with sunshine,
Ripe grasses green and high;
With a reaper in the meadow,
And a bird flies in the sky.
There's a nest with little babies,
With three beaks opened wide;
A reaper's in the meadow,
And a song hangs in the sky.
The meadow's ripe with summer,
And a tragedy passes by;
With a scythe in the meadow,
And a song up in the sky.
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