formidable size, Ten million francs. I know, because the man who sold It to cry and cry And stitch and stitch.’ ’Tis true she won to death. a ‘A ticket for the lottery I’ve purchased every week,’ said she ‘For years the score Though desperately poor am I, Oh how I’ve scrimped and scraped of buy One chance more. Each week I think I’ll gain the prize, And end my sorrows and my sighs, For I’ll be rich; Then nevermore I’ll eat bread dry, With icy hands to her splenically told He got no thanks. The lucky one was never found, For she was snugly underground, And minus breath; And with that ticket tucked away, In some old stocking, so they say, She starved to premier prize; It was
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