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The Last Cookie Poem
He'd been a buckaroo of note for nigh on sixty years, He lay there in his solitude, his thoughts began to flow,
With all the strength left in him he rolled down off the bed, To the kitchen he made his way, an
anguished labored crawl, His hands stretched out his fingers strained when almost on the prize,
"DON'T TOUCH A SINGLE ONE OF THEM, The Last Cookie Poem, Copyright © 2005 Thom Blackbird. All rights reserved.
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