And all flock’d round, and mark’d with stound
What this strange thing mote be.
So thick! so long! so sharp! so strong!
They saw the truth full quick:
For who but he its lord could be?
’Twas Cormoran’s own tooth-pick!
And who could seize that pocket-piece,
Nor pay for’t with his head?
And who e’er felt beneath that belt?
It must be he was dead!