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| Topic: The parodist | |
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So, I'll write no more like Byron
So late into the night Though my pen is waiting ready And the page is clean and white. Now my brain has turned to sand And with tears the page is damp The pen falls from my hand For I've got writer's cramp. Though the night was made for writing In the silence and the still I'll turn off all the lighting And save my fuel bill. |
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