© 2014 by P Michael Biggs
I like bread made by Fred
He knows how to use his head
And with his bread he gives me spread
With the bread made by Fred
Fred sleeps in a bed
It is chrome red
And above his bed
There is a cow’s head
Fred carries his bread,
He uses his head
He is not misled
When he delivers his bread
One sign he misread
It said don’t tread
A day I did dread
A day with no bread
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