THE wandering Demons assemble,
          Each gink has a kink in his snoot.
          Each Imp is a bute on a toot.
Terrestrials whiff, sniff and tremble.
The maiden that can't find the prison
          Is now in a terrible fix.
          We'll call it a seven or six.
One question of note has arisen—
That bell, oh that horrible knell!
The blistering maiden in Hell,
She walks on the burning hot tiling.
          The heat in the cavern is fierce,
          The Demon pursues, carte and tierce.
The girl flung her fling—oh defiling!
          Oh poor little girlie, poor thing!
          Poor birdie, poor, poor broken wing.
The Fiend is vindictively surly,
          He stabs with a sharp burning knife.
          She walked into sin all her life.
Oh pity the blistering girlie!
          Poor girlie!

We can't speak too highly of Riley,
          Nor notional Nimrod the peach.
          Mike certainly is not a leech,
All generous—just a bit wily.
          Kink winkie, he puts on the slugs.
          ('Tis better to live without bugs.)
The Dong Dinger quite a good fellow,
          Is zealous when not on the drag,
          Astride of that steep rocky crag.
Quite jaundiced and partially yellow,
          He is such a wonderful wag.
          Especially during a jag.
                   Don't gag.

And now for that creature all gears,
The woman without any ears,
          She's a classical problem to parse,
          Is almost an optical farce.
She sometimes calls forth a few jeers.
          There's a crack in her tumbledown beak
          Like a flageolet minus the squeak;
Or a mandolin tuned to a fourth,
          Or a fiddle bow weak in the middle;
          Or an overdone cake on a griddle,
Or a bowlful of underdone broth,
          All froth.

And as for my dandy old chummer
          The vinegerone—oh my curves!
          Alas it is hard on my nerves.
I fear I am quite a fierce bummer.
          So lest you fall down in a fit
'Tis better to be a swift pruner.
          Now out with it, quick or I split.
I treated the old bagpipe tuner—
          One freakish farewell, yes to wit,
The very same way I'll treat you.
Dear me I am broke, get the glue.
          And fix me up just a wee bit.
Step lively about in a jiffy,
          And then we will enter the pit.
          So give me yer mitt. We now quit
As soon as I sign the name, Griffy.

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