Scrimmage in
through the hole in the wall
Bearing fruits
Made with little maure
Dried and preserved for sale.
A heap of virgin droppings
Upon the fine, dry soil
Hurtful to our produce
Frit, fret, and fruitless
Leaching from our home
The cat
Pounces upon the rat
Butchered and beaten to the surface
He had ought to make an appearance
Beds now lay in caves
What a cloudy day
To reign down
On our famished land.