And if, my friend, you’d have it end,
There’s naught to hear or tell.
But need you try to black my eye
In wishing me farewell.
Though I admit an edged wit
In woe is warranted,
May I be frank? . . . Such words as “-”
Are better left unsaid.
There’s rosemary for you and me;
But is it usual, dear,
To hire a man, and fill a van
By way of souvenir?
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