Scoundrels and riff-raff unwaught to tip-toe,
These occupied tongues rumble right through the growth,
Scaling fences the old boy’s too slow,
And if he gets near us, he’s pounded with snow.

Ripen our language, new words feeling old,
This recipe seems to be taking its toll,
Words come easy when your friends coming down
With a sleepy condition now helpless in town.