He counts time, time, but time counts against him.

It is his habit of puttying up his clumsy errors

That brings ruin on all of us. No he-witch,

I have rhyme, I have a certain power to lay a curse.

O'Rahilly did it, you withered, and all who knew you.

Some way of making your name ridiculous, or worse,

Till you would wish never to hear of yourself again.

I had the enemy in my house, the clattering workman,

Only yesterday, the master of words and nails.

I thought of Leonard, I remembered Wren, and Wright,

Reached at Gutenberg's wooden letters, Rodin's wooden

Mallet, I dreamed Jefferson's years making Monticello.

And laid a curse on the man who re-hung my door crooked.