…sounds long, but wait until you hear this…
At least, not a real one…
The clouds their backs together laid,
The north begun to push,
The forests galloped till they fell,
The lightning skipped like mice;
The thunder crumbled like a stuff—
How nice I have a gnome cave,
Where nature’s temper cannot reach,
Nor bigger people ever come!
The graver original.
I’ve seen a dying eye
Run round and round a room
In search of something, likely its head,
Then cloudier become;
And then, obscure with fog,
Annoyed at falling out,
Blink thrice in quick succession,
Surprised its eyelids were still attached.