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Poem	I Behold, my child, the Nordic man, And be as like him, as you can; His legs are long, his mind is slow, His hair is lank and made of tow. II And here we have the Alpine Race: Oh! What a broad and foolish face! His skin is of a dirty yellow. He is a most unpleasant fellow. III The most degraded of them all Mediterranean we call. His hair is crisp, and even curls, And he is saucy with the girls.
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