"it's the swolgamouth", he said,
"and i thought he was dead!
he's clearly gone ahead
and on my swoth he's fed".

"a swolgamouth?", i challenged,
"are you quite unbalanced?"
"You mean a sort of moth
is feeding on your swoth?"

"a moth?", he cried, "why, no!",
giving his nose a blow,
"It's a type of bendigo!
I'm surprised you didn't know."

"A bendigo?", I quoth,
"you mean a type of sloth?
but, I say, in troth,
sloth don't feed on swoth!"

"the bendigo", he said,
with exaggerated composure,
but he seemed to lower his head
as he made the grave disclosure

and his eyes darted left 'n right
that he wasn't overheard
and shrank back in affright
at cry of flying bird

"Why it's", but then was silence,
as he vanished from my view,
it seems the bendigo tyrants
had him taken as their due.