Songs from Books by Rudyard Kipling
page 68 of 213 (31%)
page 68 of 213 (31%)
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Oh that's beyond the grip of rhyme.
'Twas, 'Sweet, I must not bide with you,' And 'Love, I cannot bide alone'; For both were young and both were true, And both were hard as the nether stone. * * * * * There is pleasure in the wet, wet clay, When the artist's hand is potting it; There is pleasure in the wet, wet lay, When the poet's pad is blotting it; There is pleasure in the shine of your picture on the line At the Royal Acade-my; But the pleasure felt in these is as chalk to Cheddar cheese When it comes to a well-made Lie: To a quite unwreckable Lie, To a most impeccable Lie! To a water-tight, fire-proof, angle-iron, sunk-hinge, time-lock, steel-face Lie! Not a private hansom Lie, But a pair-and-brougham Lie, Not a little-place-at-Tooting, but a country-house-with-shooting And a ring-fence-deer-park Lie. * * * * * We be the Gods of the East-- Older than all-- Masters of Mourning and Feast How shall we fall? |
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