The night is warm and cozy now.
Apples grow quietly on the trees.
And golden grain stirs lazily in the evening breeze.
And all is well..
All mimsy were rhe borogroves…
All mimsy were the borogroves…
Are you accusing me of Lewis Carol-ing? 🙂 Anyway.. I wouldn’t exactly call them mimsy.. More beamish, I guess 🙂
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