A claw to gouge the craggy feldspar face,
A fang that’s meet to chew the brittlest flint,
A scale to thwart the cleaving cutlass trace,
Through sparks and brume your fiery eyes a-glint.
Behind hooked-claw, a jealous rage serrating,
Behind sharp-tooth a taste for mortal flesh,
Behind bronze scale a thrown-down gage awaiting,
In scathing eye a hungry look of death;
And looming on the threshold of your parlour,
Intent to raid and steal your hoarded treasure,
Two-score and ten of juicy men in armour,
To satisfy and stay your hunger’s pleasure;
For thirty-days you’ll dine on manly grub,
But where to put the bones—now there’s the rub!