A tight-woven birch basket
Weary with wear
A God-given garden
An orchard lass fair
With bushels of berries
And fictitious fruit
A little lost cowbird
A peppermint flute
I gander, I gather
Not a nook will I spare
I wander, I wonder
Which fruit flowers where
I walk - widdle pathways
I stumble across
A berry patch prickled
And pebbles - peat moss
The berries be golden
With puce ladel leaves
The vines; powder white
A wonder she weaves
Mysterious berries
A woman walks near
I ask her 'what be they? '
'Why, mulberries dear'
'Mulberries m'am? '
'Be they poison to eat? '
'Of course not, ' she said
So I suckled them sweet
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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