“Don’t I know,” said O’P., “what the wretches are at?
They’re intending to eat me as soon as I’m fat!”
In terror of coming to pan, spit, or pot,
His rations of jarbul he suffer’d to rot;
He would not touch purry or doolberry-lik,
But kept himself growing as thin as a stick.
Though broiling the climate, and parching with drouth,
He would not let chobbery enter his mouth,
But kicked down the krug shell, tho’ sweetened with natt,—
“I an’t to be pisoned the likes of a rat!”