The plums are bending down the bough
That overhangs my seat –
So low, in fact, as to allow
My reaching one to eat.

It’s like a drop of summer sun
And comes away with ease,
And then I pick another one
Which seems to want to please.

They‘re both as good as each delight
It’s been my luck to taste,
And so I think it’s only right
That nothing goes to waste.

So, in the end, there stands a stone
Upon each armrest of my throne.

Photo by Elena Mozhvilo on Unsplash

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