A stormy day in Piney Flats.
The rain comes down in spats and spitz,
Sending the townsfolk to the vats,
To cover the precious slivovitz.

The hail comes down in Piney Flats,
About the size of old peach pits.
This is why they wear mohair hats,
While brewing up their slivovitz!

The wind doth blow in Piney Flats,
And the spiny bats can no more flit.
The wind rattles the window slats,
As townfolks drink up the slivovitz.

Although the weather is foul in Piney Flats,
'Tis here alone these folk will sit,
For they love their town of Piney Flats,
and brewing up their slivovitz!

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