< a508.txt.1; poem >
We like March - his
Shoes are Purple -
He is new
and high -
makes he mud for
Dog and Peddler -l-
makes he Forests Dry -
Knows the Adders Tongue
his coming
And
begets her spot -
Stands the Sun so
close and mighty -
That our
minds are
hot -
News is he of all
the others -
Bold it were to die
With the Blue
Birds
buccaneering
On his British sky -