And Fast By, Hanging In

First Moloch, Horrid King, Besmirched In Blood, Of Human Sacrifice, And Parent's Tears, Though, For The Noise Of Drums And Timbrels Loud, Their Childrens' Cries Unheard, That Passed Through Fire, To His Grim Idol.

Who Knows Not Circe, The Daughter Of The Sun , Whose Charmed Cup Whoever Tasted, Lost His Upright Shape, And Downward Fell Into A Groveling Swine?

Zeal And Duty Are Not Slow But On Occasion's Forelock Watchful Wait.

On The Tawny Sands And Shelves Trip The Pert Fairies And The Dapper Elves.

Solitude Is Sometimes The Best Society.