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THE MAIL

So pity little Junior's fate, All,

For he's woundup behind the eight-ball.

We're sorry most for Colonel Ruppert

How could a tycoon be so stuppert?

He'll find there isn't any honey

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In putting up a lot of money

And then to have his expedition

Because of faulty supposition

Explore and map and fix his name

To (Byrd! Thy everlasting shame!)

Not brand new lands of ice and snow

But underparts of Mexico.

Let's give the Byrd to Mr. Goudey

For having the crust to be so rowdy

And spoiling other people's fun

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