THERE was a young lady of Rheims,
There was an old poet of Gizeh;
He rhymed on the deepest and sweetest of themes,
She scorned all his efforts to please her:
And he sighed, " Ah, I see,
She and sense won't agree."
So he scribbled her moonshine, mere moonshine, and she,
With jubilant screams, packed her trunk up in Rheims,
Cried aloud, " I am coming, O Bard of my dreams!"
And was clasped to his bosom in Gizeh.
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