Winds of Summer
Dear winds of summer,
don't know when to leave!
For Houston, Texans hath no reprive.
From the moist air that ruins my hair,
and turns the grass yellow;
I cannot be more mellow.
When I take my magic carpet out,
on a jet plane we fly away to somewhere we can cry
because our hair is no longer fry!
This poem is about:
Me
My community
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