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I don't know why, but this tickles me to pieces:
THE LAY OF THE LAST CRICKET
Cleft in the narrow gulf of gusty grief
My soul is like a cricket on a leaf,
Who peering down amongst the autumn grasses
Peevishly wonders where he left his glasses.
From Miss Hargreaves by Frank Baker - the character Miss Hargreaves is a "poetess" with one published volume "Wayside Bundle"
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