With that bull on my track, and this bag on my back, a burden that Milo would hamper.
Though Milo was not a pedestrian "pot," nor was it a turnstile that nipped him;
No, if I remember my classics aright, 'twas the fork of a pine-tree that gripped him.
But nowadays one had need be a Milo and a fleet Pheidippides in one, Sir.
And with carrying weight I'm in such a state, it isn't much further I can run, Sir.
Oh, drat that bull! Will nobody pull the brute by the tail, and stop him?
Such beasts didn't ought to be let loose; in the clôture pound they should pop him,
With a gag on his muzzle. This turnstile's a puzzle, with its three blessed wings, confound it!
I don't see my way to getting through it, and there's no way of getting round it;
And I am that fat—no, I won't say that; but I'm not, like dear Arthur, quite lathy.