| August saw a contest fit for Kings
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| From far and wide they came to trade their swings
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| Little grubs with stone-age clubs and tanners' sons
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| With foxes' gloves
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| They came face to face the stiffest coarse since Tring
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| Harold took an eight-iron at the first
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| Hopped the hedge while Tostig chipped and cursed
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| Sliced into a sticky patch and, playing out, he’d met his match
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| When lettuce leaves had made the crowd disperse
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| So, we’re all as we lie
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| We’re all as we’re lying
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| No, don’t tell me it’s time,
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| It’s all in the timing.
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| Getting wiser, so much wiser, introspected ostraciser,
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| Drinking up with no holes barred to play.
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| Daphne lay beside the Silent Pool,
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| When suddenly the air began to cool
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| Otto heard it, running back, and tried to stop the thudding crack
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| As Luther strode up, crying «Winter Rules».
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| «Holy Mackerel», cried the Papal Prince,
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| «you're out of bounds I’m really quite convinced». |