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That child! Heaven knows, she's past my comprehending!

But, Mr. Falk, I thought the lyric's ending Was not so rich in—well, in poetry, As others of the stanzas seemed to be.

Why yes, and I am sure it could not tax Your powers to get a little more inserted—

You cram it in, like putty into cracks, Till lean is into streaky fat converted.

Yes, nothing easier—I, too, in my day Could do the trick.

Dear me! Were you a poet?

My Stiver! Yes!

Oh, in a humble way.