By the fire they were there
Johnclarestokes
There seems to be
Some remnants of magic
In the old syrup kettle
For every time it's fired up
And the warmth is spread
The smoke ascends
It seems there are those
Descending around the glow
The embers are stoked
Without a poke from anyone
These days the kettle fires
In the cold
Are the only way they come.
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