Tom Lehrer. But I prefer THIS sort of stuff: Sweeney the thin-groined it is, in the middle of the yew; life is very bare here, piteous Christ, it is cheerless. Grey branches have hurt me, they have pierced my calves, I hang here in the yew-tree above, without chessmen, no womantryst. I can put no faith in humans in the place they are; watercress at evening is my lot, I will not come down.
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