Pity It Is To Slay The Meanest

He Lies Like A Hedgehog Rolled Up The Wrong Way, Tormenting Himself With His Prickles.

When He Is Forsaken, Withered And Shaken, What Can An Old Man Do But Die?

So Mayst Thou Live, Dear! Many Years, In All The Bliss That Life Endears

No Sun, No Moon, No Morn, No Noon, No Dawn, No Dusk, No Proper Time Of Day, . . . . . . No Road, No Street, No T' Other Side The Way, . . . . . . No Shade, No Shine, No Butterflies, No Bees, No Fruits, No Flowers, No Leaves, No Buds.

No Blessed Leisure For Love Or Hope, But Only Time For Grief.