As i sitteth on the yond'r, in mine own humble did abide, i wroteth of a poem most most wondrous. The artist who is't ent'r'd mine own home wast naught but a impudent and naughty sir. That gent wroteth and smell'd of a song, most quite quaint of floweth'rs and gold. The most wouldst simply leaveth the sir to his riches, but i did bid that gent farewell
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