The pumpkins in the cornfield Are as yellow as can be, And the apples, red and golden, Are hanging on the tree, The grapes in purple clusters Are swinging on the vine, And the old crow's nest is empty Upon the lonely pine.
"Ha, ha," shouted Little Jack Rabbit, as Billy Breeze blew across the Sunny Meadow, and, let me tell you, Billy Breeze was just a little bit chilly, this cool November morning.
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