Damn the morning glory wench! Clattering on the cobbles hence She's a tart of ill repute Fit for not but combat boot Can't she see we are abed Trying to rest our gentle head She's often on the silken arm Of glistening men meaning harm Forcing open weary eyes To show some meager sun-lit prize We'll have none of that round here Toss her out let's give a cheer Wrap the smooth-soft darkness round With its gentle soothing sound No more here her cocks and bells Morning merchant hawking yells She must be stopped she must be gone No man living should see the dawn
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This work is Copyright (c) Mike Fletcher 2006