Bedraggled angels blethered
Across Eleven Acres
As belling from the bwoneyard
Rangled round the orchard

Her fingernails are ripped
From hauling clay-filled fists
Out of the Riddle's edges
For pots with happy voices

Conzum-ed with twanketen
Only eased by scratching
Wisp-words slim as thistles
Or sickly chicken whistles

Seem an I a childhood
Of quartere'il and wormwood
Of not-friends running nowhere
Of vog a-veiling elsewhere

Till in thе vaulted barn
Queer-lit by dummet zun
She knеw herself a vessel
Fit for a different wordle

Where footsteps must be lwone
And barefoot upon stones
And the northwind's ever-host
Giving edges to the ghosts

Seem an I a childhood
Of quartere'il and wormwood
Of not-friends running nowhere
Of vog a-veiling elsewhere
Of mother's voice not calling
Of corrugated iron
Of devil's birds and whiskey
Of chilver hogs and fleecy

And nuts I could not reapy
And nuts I could not reapy