It was a transmogrifying bee Came droning down on Chucky's old bald head And sat and put the poison. It scarcely bled,
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The curse of hell upon the sleek upstart That got the Captain finally on his back...
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But this was the old tree's late branch wrenched away, Grieving the sapless limbs, the shorn and shaken.
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This morning, there flew up the lane A timid lady-bird to our bird-bath And eyed her image dolefully as death;
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Sweet ladies, long may ye bloom, and toughly I hope ye may thole, But was she not lucky? In flowers and lace and mourning,...
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Now the poor comb stood up straight But Chucky did not.
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And weeping fast as she had breath Janet implored us, 'Wake her from her sleep!'...
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There was such speed in her little body, And such lightness in her footfall, It is no wonder her brown study Astonishes us all.
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Alas, ...
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