John Taylor Poems

An apple falls slowly down,
Hitting the ground with a plop.
It joins others down there,
Waiting for more to drop.
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Don’t ever leave your pick-up truck
In the barnyard, you’ll press your luck.
If a mean ‘ol bull gets in with it,
He’ll beat it to scrap in a minute.
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He was tied to the wheel,
The sailor had no choice.
A storm was approaching,
Already drowning all voice.
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