They ploughed me once, they ploughed me twice,
⁠I won't say when those cruel men
Desisted, but let this suffice:
⁠I did get through the Littlego.

I feel inclined to prophesy
⁠That this effete and obsolete
And hydra-headed pest will die
⁠And to perdition it'll go;
They'll substitute for complex plans
⁠Incontinent abolishment,
And only antiquarians
⁠Will care about the Littlego.

But still at that appalling hour
⁠When churchyards gape, a hideous shape
Behind me moved, by unseen power,
⁠Like some debauched bandit,'ll go:
Enveloped in a Paley sheet,
⁠It waves on high an x+y,
And dogs me down each dismal street—
⁠The spectre of the Littlego.