“It’s the Heat. The Heat, the Heat, the Heat!”
Perhaps you know that group the Blackeyed Smees (surgically mended in Brazil double-digits)?
Well, that’s what the Smitty is singing these days as he moves from ‘neath one garden table to t’other. Nestled in the long un-weed-whacked grasses that form a curtain of protectionation from the sun, The Smee snoozes… until Noon with her brassy fingers pokes The Smee into having to up’n decamp.
“O, the felinity!” decries The Smee.
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