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An Attempt at Saphic [[?]]

One morn, when earth was free from snow,
And springs had not forgot to flow,
A man went forth to plow and hoe,
His name was Ichabod Breverly. [[?]]

His hat was in condition sad, 
Whate'er his thoughts were good, or bad,
He there recorded all he had, 
Of chalk was made his memory.

Tall was his form- his hair coal black, 
Hung like a lynch pin down his back, 
An eel skin kept it in its sack, 
With gripe [[?]] of French fraternity.

He met a man, and I know who,
Said he kind friend, how do you do?
I'm pretty well- how is't with you?
I thank you, I am cleverly.