Past the salad fields of green,
With ciders flowing in between,
An island sits though out a-ways,
Of candy from the holidays.
They’re thrown away and tossed aside,
Without a bite or even tried,
So past the days of fresher primes,
They cry about forgotten times.
The candy corn all in a heap,
Continue on to slowly weep,
Passed over for a candy bar,
To sit...
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