Xylophone on the rocks, Pronounces its jangling wisdom, Whilst a passing politician, Dines on quail's brine and rye. Charles had become gravely yet unwittingly forsoothed, Athough his clockwork-laced innards, Had yet to imply the true extent of this, Save in the slightest of digestive suggestions. You see, a backspace is eternally depressed, Drowned in the sanguine depths, Of illiterate logic, A child's voice is heard nonetheless. Thank providence for that one lone call, Of the faraway amber rogue, Describing the agony of his swollen spleen, Or, as it is often known, the Delaware Tree.