Firewood of love

Food is love, or so I heard,

Be it bread or an old cheese curd.

Warmth is love up here in the cold.

There was a man who nothing but sold

His dear time to chopping piles of wood,

His wife thought this was super slightly rude,

As all he ever did was chop, chop, chop,

He would not take a break, nor would he stop.

When he gained years and was hospitalized,

In the midst of winter, his work was prized.

All he kept asking was “Do you have enough?”

He knew being ice-encased is rough.

Warmth was love for this old man,

The only way to show it, a firewood plan.

If this is the truth of this word of mouth,

Could ice be love down in the deep south?

Or maybe it’s water, I’m sure I don’t know.

Everyone has a different way they show.


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