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.