Thou fliest forth from it, a keen stinging bee.
Thou art the black cloud that e'er darkens my sky;
Thou art the great mote that oppresses my eye.
An incubus filling my soul full of woes;
The one ghastly skeleton my closet knows.
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Forgive, dear old lady, the harsh things I've said;
In truth, you've quite driven me out of my head.
You're not an attractive old maid, you must own;
And you do bore me awfully, old chaperon.