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- And darkly scowled she then upon that rover of the wave;
- "False! False!" she shrieked, and spoke of him as "Monster, traitor, slave!"
- And then she wept and tore her hair, and filled the air with groans,
- And cursed with bitterness the day she let them chop up Jones.

- And when she'd spent on him at last the venom of her tongue,
- She seized her pongee parasol and stabbed him in the lung.
- A few more energetic jabs were at his heart required,
- And then this scand'lous buccaneer rolled over and expired.
- Still brandishing her parasol she sought the pirate boat;
- She loaded up a gun and jammed her head into its throat;
- And fixing fast the trigger, with string tied to her toe,
- She breathed "Mother!" through the touch-hole, and kicked and let her go.

- A snap, a fizz, a rumble; some stupendous roaring tones—
- And where upon earth's surface was the recent Mrs. Jones?
- Go ask the moaning winds, the sky, the mists, the murmuring sea;
- Go ask the fish, the coroner, the clams—but don't ask me.
