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A phone call brought me news of this fable ~
I'll tell it as well as I am able:
Ray set to work as his own task-master
To clear the garden ~ Oh! What a disaster
He lit a fire in his incinerator
Then continued clearing, he'd check the fire later
But out flew a spark on to grass dry as tinder
Which quickly whooshed up and burnt to a cinder
His neighbours rushed round, lugging their hoses
Coughing, as smoke got right up their noses
Our worried hero started to choke and perspire
Remembering petrol in the shed now afire!
But not totally "Oh, woe!" was he
'Cos they'd averted a major catastrophe
Newly-harvested, the next field was stubble not corn
Round the edge smouldered, but didn't get very warm
Then out came the villagers from church
And nearly caught Ray in the lurch
Stripped to his waist and covered in dirt
He urgently felt the need for a shirt
Later, while relaxing in his bath
Was too embarrassed to manage a laugh
Insurance paid for his neighbour's new fence
They still talk to each other ~ friendship makes sense
Now, Ray owns a new and better shed
A satisfactory outcome ~ hope it won't go to his head
The moral is: "Don't work on Day Seven!"
They make good rules up there in Heaven
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