This day’s the eleventh,
It is not the seventh,
But they seem to be keeping it hole-y.
CANVASSING A BURROW—“COME TO THE POLE.”
For a mallard I’ve waded the marsh,
And haunted each pool, and each lake—oh!
Mine is not the luck,
To obtain thee, O Duck,
Or to doom thee, O Drake, like a Draco!