Bedraggled angels blethered Across Eleven Acres As belling from the bwoneyard A-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 That's only eased by scratching Whisp-words slim as thistles Or a sickly chicken's 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 And the northwind's ever-host Gives 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