Bedraggled angels blethered
Across Eleven Acres

As belling from the bwoneyard
Rangled round the archet

Her fingernails a-ripped
From hauling clay-filled fists

Out of the river's edges
For pots with happy voices

Conzum-ed with twanketen
Only eased by scratching

Whisp-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 the vaulted barn
Queer-lit by dummet zun

She knew herself a vessel
Fit for a different wordle

Where footsteps must be lwone
And barefoot upon stones

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
Corrugated iron

Of devil's birds and whiskey
Of chilver hogs and fleecy

Nuts I could not reapy

And nuts I could not reapy