I am shut in a garden in a far-off land 
and the gates are guarded with winged boys: 

my smock is torn, my thighs are bruised, 
but my waist is trim and slender. 

Behold me, wading through rippling waters, 
carrying my little dust-pan and brush! 

There are no cobwebs on my roses 
and I have a clean white handkercheif. 

Listen! Somebody stole my doormat . . . 
Little boys! catch him if you can. 

I donít want my doormat back again, 
but I must find that robber if I would live.