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One Misty-Moisty Morning

Probably the first poem I learned by heart—I must have been 4 or 5—was "One Misty-Moisty Morning," which I always assumed my mother brought with her from England. South Dakota, being a prairie state, didn't get much fog, but I recited it any time we got a little, and I still do. I've only ever met one other person who knew it.

One misty-moisty morning
When cloudy was the weather
There I met an old man
Clothèd all in leather.
He began to compliment
And I began to grin.
How d'you do, and how d'you do
And how d'you do again.

There are variants on these words but this is the way it's in my head.  Read More 
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