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 Books all about them ancient blokes That lived a thousand years ago: Philosophers an' funny folks. What he sees in them I don't know. There ain't much fun, when all is said. In chaps' that is so awful dead.

He put his book down when I came, He took his specs off, patient-like. He's been in Rome; an' who can blame The old man if he gets the spike To be jerked back so suddenly By some glum-lookin' coot like me.

At first he looks at me quite dazed, As tho' 'twas hard to recognize The silly fool at which he gazed; An' then a smile come in his eyes: "Why, Jim," he says. "Still feelin' blue? Kiss her, an' laugh!" … But I says, "Who?"

"Why, who, if not the widow, lad?" But I says, "Widows ain't no go." "What woman, then, makes you so sad?" I coughs a bit an' says, "Dunno." He looked at me, then old Bob Blair He ran his fingers through his hair.