Barreling down the bowling lane.
Whilst all around the minstrels dew
Doth encase an emerald stain
Whoes part, and whole, in sorrow flew.

When chanst upon the golden font
And tippled o'er the flowing wind
And shocked and dried as was their wont
The flock with whom the forest sinned

So blank the verse and still the rhyme
And cast oars through the midnight hour
None doubt the word will be this: Time
And harken to the quaking tower.