Arthur crouches low and mutters
Cruel things about his bed.
Pete with legs like lengthy putters
Shambles round as one long dead.
Voice he has akin to whining,
Face as long as violin;
I am weary now reclining,
And I loudly sigh, all in.
Smoke is the lamp and guttering,
Crazy are the shadows cast:
Can it be he yet is muttering?
Can it be that this will last?
Rain is falling on the breezes,
Sleep is creeping o’er my brain.
Thanks for that. It aye releases
Me from hearing Pete’s refrain.
9. 3. 30