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From: Louise Burns
Is that my house where all the flames rise high?
Who then 'tis that hates me so very much?
I can't surely say, but I've got a hunch.
You eat my food, you drink my wine at lunch.
All I ever ask is that your plate's washed.
Still now, you'd burn all down in simple spite.
Giving little mind to wrong or to right
As long as your head could win its main fight
Grinning to make us watch that sick sight, now
That from the cold stone sparks of fire do fly,
From: Paul Jackson
From York I come, not this fair London town.
So if you feel my accent be too gritty
For this offence I beg don't do me down.