This is my house that Jack built
I'm not racked with guilt by the cracked tilt
My back is not wilted by the black silt
Though this is a house on a shack stilt
This is the malt in the barn house
No garn mouse gnawed my farm spouse
And some rat sack would be darn grouse
To pack in this house that Jack built
Or a cat to trap and kill that fat rat
With that brattish will and no gnattish pill
And beside that it just sat staring still
On my windowsill till my malt spilled
I lay flat splat up on my top hill
No Jill or dog warms my rump chill
No big meal of cow and char-grill
Just a wailing horn with crumpled skill
No maiden now will come forlorn
With milk or malt to this father torn
From this house now leaning tattered with scorn
By a wife to a priest all shaven and shorn
The cock has crowed now more than twice
But the priest won't waken though it's crowed now thrice
Yet early it rose in the darkness of morn
Well before the light of this noon was sawn
