We count twenty seven houses
And three men still left in them.
Twenty four are somewhere up.

A man whose son ditched wife
Is not now one of the three left.
Nor wife who was duly ditched .

That man whose Adam’s apple
Went up and down a hesitation
Is not one of three in the count.

Man who had greenest fingers
Is sowing grass seeds in a sky .
Sure he is not one of the three .

Soon there is nothing to count.
There will be nobody to count it.
The finger counts and moves up.

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