Then the Mayor and Council and Charity Board
O'er the archival prophecy zealously pored,
With a pursing of lips and a shaking of heads,
With a searching and prying for possible threads
That would lead to discover this versatile Glug
Who modelled a rhyme while he mended a mug.

With a pursing of lips and a shaking of heads,
They gave up the task and went home to their beds,
Where each lay awake while he tortured his brain
For a key to the riddle, but ever in vain . . .
Then, lo, at the Mayor's front door in the morn
A tinker called out, and a Movement was born.


"Kettles and pans! Kettles and pans!
Oh, the stars are the gods'; but the earth, it is man's.
But a fool is the man who has wants without end,
While the tinker's content with a kettle to mend.
For a tinker owns naught but the earth, which is man's.
Then, bring out your kettles! Ho, kettles and pans!"


From the mayoral bed with unmayoral cries
The magistrate sprang ere he'd opened his eyes.
"Hold him!" he yelled, as he bounced on the floor.
"Oh, who is this tinker that rhymes at my door?
Go get me the name and the title of him 1"
They answered. "Be calm, sir. 'Tis no one but Sym.