the fostry boys and clair-n-tine hills
will wrest away their fears
like marcks-alarns and floaty badge
and puffer-nickel stills.

they'll bother beat with ever chills
and lime-lack in the surf.
I'll wait for time appronaheed,
I'll ferret out the mirth.

you'll not buy wick-ends in their fall
nor taste their merton soot,
you'll waste your fully throtton ball
and save your lamest foot.

as they're the childs of never-been,
the cartwheels at street and rue,
unghost their face as your beating slows,
these boys, to res-cue you.