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Now of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It leaves me only fifty more.
And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.
-- A.E. Housman
I sent a letter to the fish, I said it very loud and clear,
I told them, "This is what I wish." I went and shouted in his ear.
The little fishes of the sea, But he
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