My childhood, real and magical, my childhood, so I need it. I’m still trying to get the world around my riding stick to come back. Ah, in a farthing of rust, I hide again with the dog picking up uproar, again with pepper to sprinkle a slice of bread black. My childhood, one-storied, my childhood, is so important to me as it becomes cold to be taken from the child’s fire. I’m still trying to wrap the world around, sticking a stick to you coming back, every day a devilry is from me.