Thrust—sans sorrow or regret—
Thrust them through the Little Door.
Warder of Oblivion’s keep—
Dismal dank, and black as jet—
Through the fatal wicket sweep
All the pests we all have met.
Prithee, overlook no bet;
Grab them—singly, by the score—
And, lest they be with us yet,
Thrust them through the Little Door.