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There was an old woman tossed up in a blanket, Seventy times as high as the moon :
Where she was going, I couldn't but ask it, For in her hand she carried a broom.
" Old woman, old woman, old woman," quoth I, " Oh ! whither, oh ! whither, oh ! whither, so high ? " "To brush the cobwebs off the sky! And I will be back again by and by." |
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