My dear G.,The pain in my kneeWould not suffer meTo drink your bohea.I can laugh and talk,But I cannot walk;And I thought his Grace would stareIf I put my leg on a chair.And to give the knee its former powerIt must be fomented for half-an-hour;And in this very disagreeable state,If I had come at all, I should have been too late.
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My Dear G.
written bySmith Sydney
© Smith Sydney
