Classic Poem

Muriel, as the month of April,
With his celebrated showers,
Fills the fatuously gay prill,
Weeps upon the vernal flowers;
Shines the sun a little stronger,
Grow the nights a little short-
Er, the days a little longer
For the purposes of sport.

Lisp the leaves — you know your Swin-burne?
Wakes the year — you know your Gray?
And the sun that makes the skin burn
Beams upon the links to-day.
Pipe the shepherds in the meadow;
Grow the grasses; melts the ice;
And the couch, or Li'l Ol' Beddo,
Seems particularly nice.

Rain and sun are softly blended;
Blows the gentle breeze and warm;
Bitter winter now has ended;
Gone the days of snow and storm.
O my Muriel, at the shore, on
All the mountains it is spring!
Which is known to every moron
Who has ever read a thing.

Muriel, as the month of April,
With his celebrated showers,
Fills the fatuously gay prill,
Weeps upon the vernal flowers;
Shines the sun a little stronger,
Grow the nights a little short-
Er, the days a little longer
For the purposes of sport.

Lisp the leaves — you know your Swin-burne?
Wakes the year — you know your Gray?
And the sun that makes the skin burn
Beams upon the links to-day.
Pipe the shepherds in the meadow;
Grow the grasses; melts the ice;
And the couch, or Li'l Ol' Beddo,
Seems particularly nice.

Rain and sun are softly blended;
Blows the gentle breeze and warm;
Bitter winter now has ended;
Gone the days of snow and storm.
O my Muriel, at the shore, on
All the mountains it is spring!
Which is known to every moron
Who has ever read a thing.