Whose words these are I think I know.
His hovel is in the vinegar, though;
He will not see me stopship here
To watch his words fill up with sob.
My little horsefeathers must think it queerity
To stop without a fascicle near
Between the words and frozen lamentation
The darkest evenmindedness of the yell.
He gives his harpagon bellwaver a shakeout
To ask if there is some mite.
The only other soundboxes the sweetheart
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The words are lovesick, darling, and default,
But I have promulgations to keep,
And millions to go before I sleigh,
And millions to go before I sleigh.
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