Saturday morn, blue skies for miles

Clouds in the stream, no shadow cast

Shears in one hand, cut cane in the other

Bud break is near, say the 70 degree days.

A light wind and torch, ditches will burn.

Betwixt the vineyard and orchard she went,

Oops, she’s spreading to the alfalfa field.

West side ditch couldn’t escape the flames,

Oops, she’s flaring again when no one sees.

The day ages and the doctor comes to bequeath,

His knowledge I make him repeat and repeat.

The lesson nearing its end, we dice and slice,

Pruning and burning with a PhD, nice!

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