Rührend schöne Herzgeschichten,
Die ihm vor der Seele schweben,
Weiß der Dichter zu berichten.
Wovon aber soll er leben?

Was er fein zusammenharkte,
Sauber eingebundne Werklein,
Führt er eben auch zum Markte,
Wie der Bauer seine Ferklein.

Wilhelm Busch
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