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Show My Song. Now poems on the falling snow Are quite the proper thing. And How the Wintry Winds Do Blow The Poets all will sing. But I'll confine my gentle Muse To subjects quite in keeping I'll chant of Fries and Oyster Stews In platters piled and heaping. While others crip of Russet Leaves And Barren Woodlands Drear, Of Icicles on Drooping Eaves, And Lessons of the Year, I'll warble In a livelier strain Of Lobster Newburg sizzling Or Red Chianti and Champagne, And Rabbits hot and drizzling. ' New York Times. |