Food
Gold in a leather bag, swinging on a tree, money after honey in its time. Ills of a scurvy crew cured by the sea, reason in its season but no rhyme.
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Food
A time when they're green. A time when they're brown. But both of these times, cause me to frown. But just in between, for a very short while. They're perfect and yellow. And cause me to smile.
