A Morse code message writ in licht
That yet I couldna read aricht
The skippin’ sparks, the ripples, rit
Like skritches o’ a grain o’ grit
’Neth Juggernaut in which I sit.
Twenty-six thoosand years it tak’s
Afore a’e single roond it mak’s,
And syne it melts as it were wax.
The Phœnix guise ’tll rise in syne
Is mair than Euclid or Einstein