To make this poem
I stitched these words together.
Some are made of cambric
And some are made of leather.
I tried to make a pattern
Pleasing to the eye
Then washed it in a babbling brook
And hung it out to dry.
But gipsies from the turnpike
Filched it off my line
To sell at Tideswell market
For a flagon of red wine.
Oh, I wondered where this poem had gone
And wished that it could be
Safe on some island faraway
In my case of poetry.
But that spring a wainman found it
Thrown down upon the heath
Tattered and battered yet
Still in one piece – much to my relief.
Oh where have you been my bonny poem?
Speak of the things you’ve seen!
Did experience teach you anything?
Pray tell me what you mean.