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She sits on a hard wood stool.
Spiders do not sit beside her to bluff at
her. Lord knows she never eats gruel.
So how did
this lady get stuck in a verse?
Who thought
to write and preserve it?Was Muffet subjected to some vile curse?
What had she done to deserve it?
We don’t have
any idea, we must say –
and neither,
it seems, does Miss Muffet –who tipples Blue Curacao all through the day,
reciting Stendhal to her puppet.
.
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