And suck out the marrow for food.
'And how can the soul be expected
To form an ideal of taste,
When nothing but poles are erected
Around in a watery waste?'
He sang With a voice hoarse and failing,
With rheumatics his temper was grim;
Two wild bears slipped over the poling,
And, climbing, came snapping at him.
Down he threw, as with anger he flushes,