Artillery had the audacity
to have the hounds paws read
Whilst drinking dry red rye
layed down for a future
Hidden amongst the reedy beds
Shaken as slow worm Scrawled
its bellied name as it made its way up
Onematepia hill on its side it crawled.
Taking Hundred and ninety three years
Only to see a tuppence rise
each time a year went by When the leaves fall
Burning through time Looking for a answer
to buy a hand full of rice to carve
And that’s why there’s a empty
poor paw prickly pore poire.