Past cotton—grass and moorland boulder Shovelling white steam over her shoulder, Snorting noisily as she passes Silent miles of wind—bent grasses. Birds turn their heads as she approaches, Stare from bushes at her blank—faced coaches. Sheep—dogs cannot turn her course; They slumber on with paws across.

Atleast old homer is still here

Bart bash

I liked the old bart better.

Lol

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