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When I was small,

And he was able,

My grandfather and I picked blackberries

In his forest of a garden.

The raspberries were never my favorite,

So I’d only put what I wanted

In my washed out ice cream bucket.

We’d talk under the country sun as we worked

All day,

Until the bushes were bare.

And after we sat down inside,

To eat what we’d collected,

I would have the hardest time ever

Getting the red

Off of my little,

Stained fingers.