Strolling through the English woods with respect,
The magpie like a spy in respite watches intently through its specs,
Silver birch growing high to form a canopy in the sky,
A carpet of bluebells cover the ground,
In this ancient woodland to be found,
With tales of witches thimbles and cuckoo boots,
With fairies playing tunes as they dart about,
Summoned to a woodland gathering because there is a stranger about,
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