The wind in his fist At the cut of dawn Before Chester dogs arise His head in his feathers On his own head A bone to scratch Pouring old ladies and their canes Keep a dog and bark yourself Keep the dish level A horse in front The last yellow chick Beetle in her head The sun comes to the hill No Welsh between them Not a full yard A day for the king Come to their wood Over the top of the dishes Over her head and ears Like killing snakes Like crows' feet Like pig's' feet White his world To mince air Honey in his thumbs Every hairy peak Put the fiddle on the roof A hard forehead The young roof Darken the door Loud his bell

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