Fiddlehead Riot

The fiddle in the middle, like idle Maddie, is made of strong mettle. The throng of go seers left the farms a long time ago. The electric strings charm lines of people. Once, hanging fruits for the thieves stood strong; troops that the leaves hid. Amid the turbulent dry spell, the fathers left the mothers, irrigated once they were irritated with little water. Everything mattered -even loose teeth had depth, a meaning for falling, it foretold even more precise gleaning this season. But men’s hands deteriorated during the Fiddlehead Riot where lands lying beyond the fence swept under the lazy dim sun with little rain running back.  

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