What is felicity-there to know,
As he hugs himself for cold,
Keep everything low,
No vintage as him or old,
There he took treacherous paths,
With a spine bended as hook,
In a night full of cunning rats,
He traced the road with crook,
To beget impudent son and daughter,
Time quickly traced his face,
Now in streets he lives and slumber,
With a health failing in days.
