As I was going to St. Ives
I met a man with seven lives;
Seven lives,
In seven sacks,
Like seven beeves
On seven racks.
These seven lives
He offered to sell,
But which was best
He couldn’t tell.
He swore with any
I’d be happy forever;
I bought all seven
And thought I was clever,
But his parting words
I can’t forget:
Forever
Isn’t over yet.

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