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A Nightingale by Any Other Name Would Be in Another Ode
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All this warbling makes me weary,
my throat is sore, my life is dreary,
I can’t stand your poesy, Johnny, anymore.
When you croak, I’ll croak along,
I’ll sing a hoarse and merry song,
at your coffin I’ll be ravin’ "Nevermore!"
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Last edited by Petra Norr; 11-25-2010 at 03:09 PM.
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