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| This is a poem called "The Dirt". | |
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| Once there was a little man / Who kept his house both spic and span/ But no matter how he tried, somehow/ The dirt would get in anyhow | |
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| He scrubbed so hard. He made things gleam/ All would be well... or so it seemed/ But he'd just blink his eyes, and then /It would be dirty once again | |
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| He puzzled on this every day/ Why won't the dirt just stay away?/ At last, he figured out a way/ To clean it so that clean it'd stay | |
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| His conclusion was rather grim / It was his fault. The dirt was him/ And so he jumped into the bay / Where he would, at last, he washed away | |
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| So now there is no little man / To keep that house both spic and span/ Its dust a testment to how / The dirt still gets in anyhow. (Thank you. ) | |
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