I dearly long perhaps you've learned
The process, and will let me know it
To stop a fierce and curdling wail
And muzzle a forsaken poet.
There was a girl who loved him once,
The one girl that his whimsy needed;
But she was very wicked, for
She tired some several months ere he did.
So now his tears wet all my street,
A nuisance, whatsoe'er the weather;
And much I long to bury him
And his confounded dreams together.
There never was a girl, I know,
Was worth such loud, incessant bleating;
But he is deaf when I deride,
And adamant to my ...