"That just reminds
me of a yarn," he said;
And everybody turned to
hear his tale.
He had a thousand yarns
inside his head.
They waited for him,
ready with their mirth
And creeping smiles, -
then suddenly turned pale,
Grew still, and gazed
upon the earth.
They heard no tale. No
further word was said.
And with his untold fun,
Half leaning on his gun,
They left him - dead.
remarkably similar to Wilfred Gibson's "We Ate our Breakfast Lying on our Backs.
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