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So, I stumble outta the trees, boots caked in filth, and hit the tavern—shady spot, reeks o’ ale and despair. There she be, a wench with eyes like stolen stars, leanin’ on the bar. “Thou art a thief,” I mutter, “stealin’ me breath like Cobb nabbin’ secrets!” She smirks—ooh, that got me riled! Cheeky tart, playin’ me like a fiddle. I’m half-angry, half-buzzin’, ‘cos she’s a riddle wrapped in silk.

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So, I’m walkin’ down the road, right? And I see this old bloke, Mr. Thompson, tryin’ to fix his bike. Poor fella looked like he was wrestlin’ a bear. I stopped to help, but he just grumbled, “I don’t need no help from a fisherman!” I laughed, said, “Well, I’m not catchin’ fish today, just tryin’ to catch a break!”

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