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Weary
Oh, I'm sick of the whole darned human race,
And I'm sick of this earthly ball;
I'm sick of the sight of my brother's face,
And his works and talk and all;
I'm sick of the silly sounds I hear,
I'm sick of the sights I see;
Omar Khayyam he knew good cheer,
And it's much the same with me.
Give me a bit of a bough to sit
Beneath, and a book of rhyme,
And a cuddlesome girl that sings a bit,
But don't sing all the time;
That's all I ask, and it's only just;
For it's all that I hold dear—
A bough and a book and a girl and a crust;
That, and a jug of beer.
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