Bedraggled angels blethered Across Eleven Acres As belling from the bwoneyard Rangled round the orchard Her fingernails are ripped From hauling clay-filled fists Out of the Riddle's edges For pots with happy voices Conzum-ed with twanketen Only eased by scratching Wisp-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 thе vaulted barn Queer-lit by dummet zun She knеw herself a vessel Fit for a different wordle Where footsteps must be lwone And barefoot upon stones And 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 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