Little Emma was sitting and typing,
confused at Mark's musing and sniping,
she reached for some soup,
slipped up on some goop,
and ended up bending and wiping.
I was chatting away to Maria,
about idiot poems and beer,
but after a while,
she ran half a mile,
because she preferred Edward Lear.
Old uncle McGill was a thief
when he worked in a sweet shop in Neath,
for he once stole a clutch
but he couldn't eat much
because sadly he didn't have teeth.
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