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Midnight In Moira's Garden
While Moira stinted not on Jacob's Creek
Red wine was a fine art I never mastered
That Saturday night was an epic session
We strode naked in her garden, plastered
My memory of events is somewhat vague
A thorn ripped the seat of my underpants
Then I was rolling about the grass, stinking
Of cat-shit, eaten alive by nocturnal ants
Moira was concerned about a hedgehog
...Sunday 20th September 2020 12:13 pm
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