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The Lost Boy

Date Written: October 5, 2017

A joyous mountain.

Exiled peasants.

A spawning spring.

To pleasure they seek

At its peak.

They are meek

Yet kind and sheik

With rags to wear,

Frizzled hair.

A castle was once their lair.

With staffs and climbing gear

They did not fear.

Up they stepped,

Up they slept.

Looking for a lost soul.

To be free from peasantry

By a cash reward,

But foul to award.


A singing shrill

Was heard on the hill tops,

They were filled with joy.

To their lungs and mouth tops:


All the way up the hill 8

They followed the shrill.

They found the one who sings

At the spawning springs.

The lost soul in toil.

The count's boy found

What a joy to sound.

Drunk with joy

They drunk their fill

Down the hill.

A heart-full,

A shivering chill,

They sung down the hill.

No hole for the dead to fill.

The peasants made a new friend,

What a thrill!


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