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o
But where I found the children naughty, In manners rude, in temper haughty, Thankless to parents, liars, swearers, Boxers, or cheats, or base tale-bearers,
I left a long, black, birchen rod, Such as the dread command of God Directs a Parent's hand to use When virtue's path his sons refuse.
o
Clement Clarke Moore
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Read poems about / on: children, god, son, child
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