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1749

The waters chased him as he fled,
Not daring look behind—
A billow whispered in his Ear,
"Come home with me, my friend—
My parlor is of shriven glass,
My pantry has a fish
For every palate in the Year"—
To this revolting bliss
The object floating at his side
Made no distinct reply.

Edited by Peter Carter

Added: 2 Apr 2003 | Last Read: 7 Jun 2025 5:42 PM | Viewed: 7648 times

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