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THE WINDMILL
Windmill, windmill oh so tall,
You’re but a structure that is all,
Bricks and motor wood and paint,
With working parts that are so quaint.
There’s little windows in your sides,
For the people there who dwell inside,
A door to enter with steps unique,
And cogs that turn but always squeak.
But most of all there’s art work to,
built into the life of you,
Though every body knows what’s best,
Those wondrous sails above our heads.
By B Kingsford Copy Write 2,003
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