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Ode to the "Parrot".. (Lieut. J.N. Lamont). You are old, Father Lamont, the subaltern wailed, Though in years you're no greater than I, Yet to cheat you your bearer has signally failed, What makes you so awfully fly? In the fat days of peace, said the sage to the youth, I collected the dibs for my clan And chasing the bawbees, to tell you the truth, Has made me a gey carfu' man. You are old, said the youth, as I mentioned before and your nose has become like a beak Yet you fly to your perch on the top of the door In a manner that's perfectly "chic". In the days of my youth, was the ancient's reply, I was only an average mortal But now I'm a god and my station's so high That I'm bound to sit over the portal. You are old, said the lad, yet you stuff your old crop With maund upon maund of mixed biscuit Which your gizzard will certainly damage and stop I wonder you're anxious to risk it! Do you think it's my job to sit here and talk rot, said the godling, from midnight to noon? In my worshipper's language, "Chelo'" you young sot, Hut ??? sir, and drill your platoon! 1915. W.P. Hewett.
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