O say can you see only indistinct blurs? As you squelch through the marsh on your way to the pig sty.
In the cold misty dawn you are poked at with twigs by the sprites of the marsh who are strident and captious.
You’re not wearing your specs. You’re disorientated. You sink to your knees in the vapours of marsh gas.
The sprites harry you, and they hector you too. You spill all the pigfeed out of your tin pail.
Such a dawning as this, on a wet Wednesday morn, it does make you wonder why e’er you were born.