A sinister mole called Lawrence Agrippa
Was rather partial to a pea and spam fritter.
He would munch all alone in his underground hole,
A contemplative greedy soul,
Whose heart was lead.
His greatest dread
Was hungry rumblings or throbbing head,
Until he heard a distant twangling
That set his heart and heckles jangling;
Banjos playing sounds so sweet
They swept him off his little feet
And sent him rocking, poodle-like,
Towards the sounds and poky spikes
And speared him. Skewered once for all
(he hardly felt a thing at all)
And then poor Lawrence Neil Agrippa
Was made into a pair of slippers.