But he grew rabid-wroth, he did,
If they neglected books,
And dragged them to adjacent cliffs
With beastly Button Hooks,
And there with fatuous glee he threw
Them down into the otion blue.
And in the sea they swam, they did,?-
All playfully about,
And some eventually became
Sponges, or speckled trout;?-
But Liverpool doth all bewail
Their Fate;?-likewise his Garden Quail.