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Conkers is a pastime,
That we remember every year,
When September comes we search about,
To find these gems, so rare.
And when we’ve collected bagfuls,
Enough for you and me,
We rush them home to sort and grade,
Into classes one to three.
The first we use immediately,
To try our luck at play,
The second, we treat, cure and bake,
Into champions, I do say.
The third we leave for a whole year long,
Lodged in the chimney flue,
Until their day of glory comes,
I’ll make do with grades one and two.