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Birds of a feather flock together, And so will pigs and swine;
Rats and mice will have their choice, And so will I have mine. |
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Little General Monk
Sat upon a trunk Eating a crust of bread;
There fell a hot coal
And burnt in his clothes a hole, Now General Monk is dead.
Keep always from the firo:
If you catch your attire, You too, like Monk, will be dead. |
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