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Jenny, because you are twenty-three, (and my daughter), You think you know everything; And because I am fifty-three, (and your mother), I think I know everything. A week ago you picked up two green little peaches, Half grown, hard as rocks, From under the loaded peach tree And put them on the kitchen window sill; And I thought (though I didn't say a word): They're too small, they will just rot But I won't move them -- Jenny put them there. Now the summer is over and you are gone, The mornings are cool, the squash conquers the garden, The tree swallows have flown away, crickets tune up -- And the sweet juice of your peaches runs down my chin.

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