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When I was young I was too proud...

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This poem is often wrongly thought to be by Robert W Service. It is published here to the memory of Hugh Antoine D'Arcy, its rightful father.
An Evening with the Bard of the Yukon, July 18 th 2003 at 20.30pm in the Town-Hall of Lancieux, Brittany.
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My Feud

Published by Susan on 08/09/2003 (3275 reads)
I hate my neighbour Widow Green...

I hate my neighbour Widow Green;
    I'd like to claw her face;
But if I did she'd make a scene
    And run me round the place:
For widows are in way of spleen
    A most pugnacious race.

And yet I must do something quick
    To keep the hag in line,
Since her red rooster chose to pick
    Five lettuce heads of mine:
And so I fed it arsenic
    Which it did not decline.

It disappeared, but on my mat
    Before a week had sped
I found Mi-mi, my tabby cat
    And it was stoney dead;
I diagnosed with weeping that
    On strychnine it had fed.

And so I bought a hamburg steak,
    Primed it with powdered glass,
And left it for her dog to take
    With gulping from the grass:
Since then, although I lie awake
    I have not seen it pass.

Well, that's the scoring up to date:
    And as I read a text
From Job to justify my hate
    I wonder who'll be next?
Somehow I feel that one must die,
    Ma Green or I.

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