It’s in the scintillating sizzle from the grease on the griddle
And some slurps of guinness from a glass
And the sleepy snore of the local bully bore
As he slumbers soundly on the green grown grass
That the grimy glum grey of a groundhog day
With its futile fears forms a fading farce
As pungent pork chops flame fat on the fire
I sigh so softly, and pale peace comes to pass
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