| My age is three hundred and seventy-two.
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| I think, with the deepest regret,
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| how I used to pick up and voraciously chew
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| the dear little boys that I met.
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| I’ve eaten them raw, in their holiday suits,
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| eaten them curried with rice.
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| I’ve eaten them baked, in their jackets and boots,
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| and found them exceedingly nice.
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| But now that my jaws are too weak for such fare,
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| I think it’s exceedingly rude
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| to do such a thing, when I’m quite well aware,
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| little boys do not like being chewed.
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| Little boys do not like being chewed.
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| So I contentedly live upon eels,
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| and try to do nothing amiss,
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| pass all the time I can spare for my meals
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| in innocent slumber like this.
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| Innocent slumber like this.
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| (More eels my lady?
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| Perhaps some bubble and squeak,
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| or a little toad in the hole?
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| A Lyconshire hot pot, perhaps?
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| That would be nice.)
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| And so now I contentedly live upon eels,
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| and try to do nothing amiss,
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| pass all the time I can spare for my meals
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| in innocent slumber like this.
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| Innocent slumber like this.
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| Word to your mother. |