Woo hoo, seventh of the seventh.

Seven of the seventh,

The Holy happy Sabbath.

The sound of the day,

Would have to be Fay,

An Art teacher I adored and say.


She had such Grace,

Surely ahead in her race,

She gave her best cheerio face.


Miss Ursula was best,

According to the rest,

Had nothing to do with her chest.


But Fay’s golden hair,

Her artistic flare,

Always impressed on in my air.


I sat to attention,

Aromma’s started tensing.

The others must have thought me pleased.


I smiled and shone,

Ran and made some,

every category was nat-ture-ly won,

My colleagues hated me so.


They saw how I’d go,

left nothing to know,

And fully prepare each impression.

Arrange all the fair,

Even manning the door in position.


But we do hate a trier,

Who wants be besides her,

Stick the besotted off in the dryer

He’ll soon see sense,

He’ll hit a brick fence,

And bounce back all despondent.


Then maybe he’ll loose,

Prove his a goose,

And his heart’ll be a reduced to a Gromit.


Now it’s forty years on,

A memory far gone,

But the scares just keep get rehardened.


I scratch them away,

Failing to say,

Forgive, forget and for fathered.




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