Underneath the Bough

When Omar smote his bloomin' lyre
About his quadruple desire,
There was no daily growing yell
About the rising c. of I.

A Loaf of Bread is costly now;
A Jug of Wine is high — and Thou!
Oh, girl! the never-ending payment
For all thy provender and raiment!

Pity the bard who pays the bill
For Bread and Wine and Lady Jill.
For stationary stays — ah, curses!
The royalty on a Book of Verses.
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