| The alley’s not dark, it’s well-lit. I had to get shoes and they fit. I’m going to stay and play a bit And try to make another hit. I put my hand in, like a mitt, Send it off and it doesn’t quit, Knocks things over–all, or a bit, Then it’s sent back, lickety-split. Then someone else’s turn, I sit. What is this place of which I’ve writ? |
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