There was a young author in Britain Who regretted each place he'd written.
For to earn daily 'pence,
He wrote books of nonsense,
Though with great works of art he was smitten.
Lear's fame for his Limericks rose.
Headjusted to it, I suppose.
He sighed over Goya,
But heated his foyer,
Writting "Dong With the Luminous Nose."
Now a new book by Lear has appeared
Which to collectors will be endeared.
But for popular taste,
It may be too chaste,
For the author has since been out-Leered.
"There was an old person of Bradley
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