There is true and ghostly ravage in the forest
depths of Maine.
For even in these days P. I.‘s shake
At the great Swamp Swogon of Brassua Lake.
When it blitters and glabbers the long night
through,
And shrieks for the souls of the shivering crew.
And all of us know of the witherlick
That prowls by the shore of the Cup-sup-tic.
Of the Side Hill Ranger whose eyeballs gleam