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Itís sweet tea pee wee,
with thin holding up hope,
she knows that cats fiddle.

He responds almost screech,
the music is walk about,
salute right off awkward.

While an oriole chortles,
a crow calls and calls, lost
rattles down beneath down.

At the limit it means,
blowing darkness in the dark,
he is blessed with edges.

Like a note floating hollow
to holler much electric;
puff the echo and swing.

Pinch me please, itís a finch;
house competes with purple:
The hermit thrush jeers alone.

Ride it out, herd it in;
his horn is out of howl
and hope captures the cat.

Home is a simple song
holding the piano up;
it weights a bunch, heave ho!

Itís his touching yours;
other birds blow this jam
and hatch tunes, scratch for bread.

      — Dick Case