They sing
The horn of plenty
Is bursting at the seams
But no true horn is seamed
Made of pieces joined together by glue
Or stitched together from cloth no longer whole
And if it is full on such days as this
The cornucopia
It is only so because of hands that labor
But cannot carry to the mouths that feed them
The fruits their labor yields
And that ram's crown or bull's
Bethought stuffed with all goodness
Is a strange centerpiece for those who know whence it came
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