There was a young man called Phillipe,
Who never could blessed well sleep.
Though he tossed and he turned,
And he groaned and he gurned,
And he counted a quadrillion sheep.
There was a young man called Phillipe,
Who never could blessed well sleep.
Though he tossed and he turned,
And he groaned and he gurned,
And he counted a quadrillion sheep.
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Richard,
Can you forgive some liberties inspired by—but possibly not excused by—a hasty attempt at humour?
There is a right wit they called Dickie
Typing poetry by night, click, click, clicky.
And heart-breaking sweet musing