I was born in an oven, says the Baker’s Man,
And I fear no rakehell nor hellrake
Nor pitch-pine Jack. I will go hellward
At my own pace, strolling and nodding
To the dotterels and dastards on the way
Munching on a fresh-baked loaf.
Oh, the cats will rejoice when I am gone
But the whores will weep, by the clock,
For a hour and seventeen minutes.