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Anne Marie Giordano/Hunter Poem
Men would rave,
we have invented a machine,
to be our slave.
Sorting, processing and retrieving,
with inventory and payroll functions,
all tasks beyond believing.
In the end, we have to say,
multiplying work for the master,
the computer has had it's way.
Copyright © Anne Marie Giordano/Hunter | Year Posted 2007
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Details |
Anne Marie Giordano/Hunter Poem
Chores are done at dawn,
coffee brewed with a yawn.
Rooster crows on his toes,
at dusk our day comes to a close.
Raindrops fall from the skies,
as a Bald Eagle cries.
Mending fences ends in defeat,
wet grass smells so sweet.
Seasons come day by day,
field hands never seem to stay.
Green apples on the tree are tart,
this farm is part of my heart.
Copyright © Anne Marie Giordano/Hunter | Year Posted 2007
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