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..."margin-bottom: 0cm;">How he longed for fond regard.
One day, sitting in his yard
Pondering his fate, ill-starred,
This poor man, oh, sad Girard
Never had one birthday card.
Next day in the railway yard,
Officers from Scotland Yard
Found his body, burned and charred
With these words, scrawled on a card:
''Why such constant disregard
For a plain but kindly guard?
From true love I've been disbarred.
You win, I quit. Signed, Girard.
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