A Nymph there was in Arcadie Who owned a crystal spring; And there she ’d wash, sans mackintosh, B’gosh, or anything. A youth there was in Arcadie Who hunted o’er the brooks; He would not tote an overcoat, But travelled on his looks. Though ancient Greece had no police, The gods did as they ’d oughter; To put them quite from mortal sight They turned them into water!
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