| There lived a sage in days of yore
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| And he a handsome pigtail wore
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| But wondered much and sorrowed more
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| Because it hung behind him
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| He mused upon this curious case
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| And swore he’d change the pigtail’s place
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| And have it hanging at his face
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| Not dangling there behind him
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| Say he, «The mystery I’ve found
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| I’ll turn me round,» — he turned him round
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| But still it hung behind him
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| Then round and round, and out and in
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| All day the puzzled sage did spin
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| In vain — it mattered not a pin —
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| The pigtail hung behind him
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| And right and left and round about
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| And up and down and in and out
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| He turned; |
| but still the pigtail stout
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| Hung steadily behind him
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| And though his efforts never slack
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| And though he twist and twirl, and tack
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| Alas! |
| Still faithful to his back
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| The pigtail hangs |