Classic Poem

Braw, snortin', roarin', fearsome beastie
What a tumult's in thy breastie
Thou needna think that we will heed thee
Or mark thy clatter
Thou canna make us believe we need thee
By inane chatter.

Poor beastie, 'tis an ill opinion
To think we'd suffer thy dominion
Thy fate is sealed for next November
After election
Then present boasts thou wilt remember
With deep dejection.

So, Moosie, cease thy bragging vain
We canna hear thee wi'out pain
The best laid plans of Moose and men
Gang aft agley
We can but hope that thine will wend
The self-same way.