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Charlie Ward
The Old, Old Story

The lad was young,
The day was cold;
The greenheart was
Infirm and old.
The net, his sole remaining toy,
Was tattered, like an orphan boy.
The little flies within his case
Looked more like mouldy curtain lace.

And yet, ye gods that rule o 'er pisces,
The lad caught more than me of fishes!

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