After my post a couple of weeks ago about spelling and homophones, I am very grateful to a Wordlady reader for acquainting me with the following brilliant poem by the American publisher Bennett Cerf (1898-1971).
The wind was rough
And cold and blough.
She kept her hands within her mough.
It chilled her through,
Her nose turned blough,
And still the squall the faster flough
And yet, although
There was no snough,
The weather was a cruel fough.
It made her cough,
Please do not scough,
She coughed until her hat blough ough.
Photo by Isaac Viglione on Unsplash
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