I couldn’t get through, or reach into her
sack for something mightn’t save me.
Stuff me quick, I lust implored, but
her recedin’ ‘cross der narrows.
I, left anon-digo, and little sign: a fading
bloody ragging, next to nothing;
'fore her share was cut,
I’d be seen some ‘counting up,
some mangled geld, or coin, no less; less
artful now. Give it heart, me frere, or don’t,
fair bonney. Same’s all reckoned true.
Later, boys and girls turned in, wicks snuffed
all ‘round, and native wind just rising, curling
to the miserlou; all benkers wasted, good and
gone or going.
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