Like the poor hare we found at Maylow's shack.
O God have pity, bring my darling back!'
All the high stars went sweeping through the sky,
The sun made all the orient clean, clear gold,
'O blessed God,' she prayed, 'do let me die,
Or bring my wand'ring lamb back into fold.
The whistle's gone, and all the bacon's cold;
I must know somehow if he's on the line,
He could have bacon sandwich when he dine.'
She cut the bread, and started, short of breath,