Where's he that died o' yesterday?What better chance hath heTo clink the can and toss the potWhen this night's junkets be?For the lad that died o' yesterdayIs just as dead — ho! ho! —As the whoreson knave men laid awayA thousand years ago.
Our homeward step was just as light/As the tap-dancing feet of Astaire/And, like an echo far away,/A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square
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