Scattered

I wrote this note to myself a week ago, but forgot to post it. I think. I’m not going to look it up. I’m that lazy.
Me: (fixing dinner, singing) You picked a fine time to leave me Lucille. 400 children and a crop in the field.
Brain: 400? That seems wrong.
Me: 400 children and a crop in the field.
Brain: No, really, that’s wrong.
Me: 4 hungry children and a crop in the field.
Brain: That sounds better. Now why am I singing this?

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