I wrote a poem about rubbish, Godfrey said, as deep in my turquoise chair sat he..rubbish? My dear Godfrey I replied do read this rubbish to me. Read he; I was footloose walking the main street of Yorkton, I heard an odd noise. It sounded as if, some rude person against a building had paused for a wee. How nasty I thought, glancing towards the sound. I saw that a small prairie whirly-wind, had lifted a piece of rubbish up off of the ground. The whirly-wind had lifted up, a sandwich wrapper and an old paper cup. Whirling the garbage up and down, that was the lonely, pickety, trickly sound. The lonely rubbish as I stood there, was teased and played with by the summer air, then quick as it came dropped the trash once more, alone in the gutter where it was tossed before. And the cheeky whirly-wind was gone. Destined to follow it was I, Godfrey, with the wind I hid my poem and I journeyed on…

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