The clerk sat in his office dark and sang a song of love,
Oh Cynthia Smith of Goods Received, you are my turtle dove.
I love your stiff and tweedy skirts, your sensible leather brogues,
I love the way you suck your tea and call your colleagues rogues.
I love your bent patrician nose, your pebble-lenséd specs,
Your cane, your limp, your hacking cough, the way you mop the decks.
I love the way you sniff each day, that drip on your pretty nose,
And how you pick your yellowed teeth and dribble when you doze.
So spare my heart, my life, my love, please say that you’ll be mine,
I’ll cook your favourite brains on toast, if you’ll be my Valentine.
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