Carry me down from the hills. They are horrible hills. Carry me down from the horrible hills in a palanquin. Do not shake me as you carry me. I am already shuddering from the horror of the hills. Tread carefully. There is no path. There is no path nor beaten track down from the hills. There are innumerable puddles. Carry me, carry me, in my palanquin. I languish in my palanquin, like a symbolist aesthete. But my moustache is unwaxed and flecked with spittle. I did much spitting in the horrible hills. I spat and spat. Bile in the gorge. Maw all jitters. I shall not spit in my palanquin. Carry me down from the hills. In the puddles live many bugs and beetles. They attach themselves to your ankles and bite you, you my carriers. They cannot bite me, for I am beyond their reach in my palanquin. Its draperies are tattered and torn. But I am clued up. Yes, I am all clued up and wise to tricks and box-hot. Carry me, carry me down with all due haste, for we must reach the plain before midnight strikes. I have a fob watch to tell the time, and I am checking, checking, checking the time each quarter-minute. When midnight strikes, the twentieth century begins. O carry me!