Windmill
The windmill stands up like a flower on the hill
With its petals a-whirling—they seldom stay still—
And its funny old voice creaking all the long day
As it scolds little breezes for running away.
With its petals a-whirling—they seldom stay still—
And its funny old voice creaking all the long day
As it scolds little breezes for running away.
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