The Moon’s the North Wind’s cooky.
He bites it, day by day,
Until there’s but a rim of scraps
That crumble all away.
The South Wind is a baker.
He kneads clouds in his den,
And bakes a crisp new moon that . . . greedy
North . . . Wind . . . eats . . . again!
(Vachel Lindsay)
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Based on Topics: Greed PoemsBased on Keywords: crumble, baker, bakes, kneads, cooky