Narrative poetry about two kids and country livin'.

Mama used to call us her little weasels, Jonah an’ me.
She’d be kneadin’ biscuits with her fingers all doughy
an’ we’d sneak strawberries outta the bucket.
She wasn’t lookin’ our way,
but I swear she got eyes everywhere,
cause she’d say, “Jess, you git on outta them berries now!”
Then she’d shoo us on outside with a broom.

We’d clip clop onto the porch, Jonah an’ me,
An’ we’d sit out on that old swing
With red juice runnin all down his overalls
an’ down my dress, but we didn’t mind it.

The End

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