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Oh! sweet Mother, If you love me well, Take a whip, Flog me well, For I assure you That small children Are full of malice Until they grow up.

In our yard there grows a tree, Which refuses to stand up straight.

In the house there grows a girl, Who holds herself like a sickle.

Gardener, have you any stakes? Take one, take two.

Drive the smaller one into the earth, To take care of the obstinate tree.

As for Miss Arched-Back, Place the larger one in her corset.