The Ph[oe]nix

A poem by Oliver Herford

The Ph[oe]nix was, as you might say,
The burning question of his day:
The more he burned, the more he grew
Splendiferous in feathers new.
And from his ashes rising bland,
Did business at the same old stand.
But though good people went about
And talked, they could not put him out.
A wond'rous bird--indeed, they say
He is not quite extinct to-day.

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