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 'Why did the lady in the lift
 Slap that poor parson's face?'
Said Mother, thinking as she sniffed,
 Of clerical disgrace.
Said Sonny Boy: 'Alas, I know.
My conscience doth accuse me; The lady stood upon my toe, Yet did not say--"Excuse me!" 'She hurt--and in that crowd confined I scarcely could endure it; So when I pinched her fat behind She thought--it was the Curate.

Poem by Robert William Service
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