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from the Humorous Writings of William Fenton Tyree, Sr.
A work-weary man was seeking, For a cure from every care, For a soul-easing sort of something, To satisfy anywhere. In vain had he sought for solace By shrines to the Sun-God raised; By altars of burning incense, Where a pious priesthood praised. And not on the lips of woman, 'Though red, like cherries ripe, But, only could he find comfort, In smoking his "Corn-Cob" pipe.
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