The tea towel on our washing line
Is somersaulting with the squalls
Supported by two plastic pegs
In what remains of mother’s smalls
The rapid speed of wind blow dries
As once again the rain resumes
The tea towel waves a call for truce
Whilst a hail of downpour looms
At last the tea towel limply droops
A washing line dance in repose
Hangs on for another weather romp
Bound to happen we suppose
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