So I say. Ducks think wet feet are best.
Come, come, my Imp. Let’s start. Our fat landlord
Has locked the door on us and taken the key.
(When you are passing by the little shop,
Remember one who wanted you for friend;
A victim of the war, without a faith,
But carrying a banner—a white field,
And no word written on it.
Yes, think of one,
Who lacks a watchword, and wears no disguise,