Give me a thrill, says the knitter,
Give me a kick;
I don't care how you succeed, or
What colours you pick.
Why should I let the toad work
Squat on my life?
Can't I use my knit as a pitchfork
And drive the brute off?
The village inn, the dear old inn,
So ancient, clean and free from sin.
. . . yet,
Stands the church clock at ten to three?
And is there honey still for tea?
At last my dear fuel of life is heaped into my soul
And with some luck I'll eat the whole thing whole.
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