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This suits though mum thus
far me
That off the fireplace I sense
A pair of trousers from the army
Upon my legs begin to redden
The invasion I await it
With the virgin ire
Exactly of the stick
In the white glove of the garrisoners
Naked or with bark tenacious
Not for beating the Teuton
But as another menace
To the end me put on
Of cutting short this wild
Nettle of sympathizing.
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