We stick and we stick--there's no rising,
We stick and forever must wait!'
There they sat like a lost pot and kettle,
Their wails o'er the wilderness passed;
They mummified little by little,
And were turned to Asphaltum at last.
A little bird flew for assistance,
Away to the townlet of Zoar;
But benumbed it fell down in the distance,
It smelt so, it fluttered no more.