The Walrus and the Neonate
Perambulate their nabe.
“Not
one more lap without your map!
Who's snatch'd my astrolabe…?”
The
Walrus thinks. “This precinct stinks!"
Prates tot, "It's got you, babe.”
The Walrus and Madame Defarge:
Beneath the
guillotine
Nigh which
they’ve stray’d, they hitch its blade,
Which seems extremely
keen.
“Let's shave aristos,” whistles she.
“Voila!
Well-oil’d machine.”
