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Dyspeptic Clerk

 I think I'll buy a little field,
Though scant am I of pelf,
And hold the hope that it may yield
A living for myself;
For I have toiled ten thousand days
With ledger and with pen,
And I am sick of city ways
And soured with city men.
So I will plant my little plot With lettuce, beans and peas; Potatoes too - oh quite a lot, An pear and apple trees.
My carrots will be coral pink, My turnips ivory; And I'll forget my pen and ink, And office slavery.
My hut shall have a single room Monastically bare; A faggot fire for the winter gloom, A table and a chair.
A Frugalist I call myself, My needs are oh so small; My luxury a classic shelf Of poets on the wall.
Here as I dream, how grey and cold The City seems to me; Another world of green and gold Incessantly I see.
So I will fling my pen away, And learn a how to wield; A cashbook and a stool today .
.
.
Soon, soon a Little Field.

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