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[ the man from Mossbawn ] The blobs of dung, the muck and mush The soggy slime and sticky spawn The clammy smells and squelch of mud Are what are found across the page While yet again they reappear Those sods of turf and clay. A skill he had, we must admit, To market home and hearth. Avail adeptly yes he did Of modern means To make himself well known. Outside our Emerald Isle His voice was gladly heard: A poet for the everyday Of rural life and little things. An actor farmer welcomed by His multitude of fans. He kept an image of our land Which those at home had dearly wished Would sooner die away. A friendly face, a manner mild He always showed when being observed. A public figure of our day Concerned for one and all. A cult it grew and spread abroad And so supplied some easy lines For those in search of quotes. Support he rallied here as well From students and from scholars Both young and old they all chimed in How great indeed his poems Ensuring that he did receive Awards and accolades. Time passes on and tastes will change So if his fame will still do well In years to come with those who read Is something now which only time can tell.
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