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Silver and ermine and red faces full of port wine.
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Now if the harvest is over, And the world cold, Give me the bonus of laughter, As I lose hold.
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I am a young executive. No cuffs than mine are cleaner;I have a Slimline brief-case and I use the firm's Cortina.
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And behind their frail partitionsBusiness women lie and soak,Seeing through the draughty skylightFlying clouds and railway smoke.Rest you there, poor unbelov'd ones,Lap your loneliness in heat,All too soon the tiny breakfast,Trolley-bus and windy street!
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Come, friendly bombs, and fall on Slough!It isn't fit for humans now,There isn't grass to graze a cow.Swarm over, Death!
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In the licorice fields at PontefractMy love and I did meetAnd many a burdened licorice bushWas blooming round our feet;Red hair she had and golden skin,Her sulky lips were shaped for sin,Her sturdy legs were flannel-slack'dThe strongest legs in Pontefract.
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The test of an abstract picture, for me, is not my first reaction to it, but how long I can stand it hanging on the wall of a room where I am living.
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I don't think I am any good. If I thought I was any good, I wouldn't be.