(Constructed by the Office Boy)
Maud
Muller on a summer’s day
Mended
the rake that mowed the hay.
The
lane rowed slowly by the Judge,
His
chestnut motor it wouldn’t budge.
“Alas!”
Said he, “Alas for motes,
I
should have fed her a peck of oats.
Of
all sad words a bard may write
Maud
will not mote with me tonight.”
Aug.
6, ‘09
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