in condiments, how like a hot dog! the buns of the world! the pullover of Faroe Isle wool! And yet, to me, what is this mustard relish made of? Ham delights not me; no, nor bacon neither, though by your jibing you seem to say so.
Mauling Shakespeare 'bout the land, Mister Jay is here at hand, And the wit outdone to me Smirking here quite happily; Shall we two quite clever be? Lord, what fools all writers be!
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(tag. You're it.)
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No more, and by that sheep to our flock tend
The honeycomb's brake and the thousand unnatural socks
Knitted from that wool
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**vegetarian disclaimer
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the buns of the world! the pullover of Faroe Isle wool!
And yet, to me, what is this mustard relish made of?
Ham delights not me; no, nor bacon neither,
though by your jibing you seem to say so.
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Mister Jay is here at hand,
And the wit outdone to me
Smirking here quite happily;
Shall we two quite clever be?
Lord, what fools all writers be!
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