Once upon a dreary, foggy morn
A savage, mutilated son was born
In a city rumbling to cock-eyed beats
A thousand spectators wait in their seats
Hoping for a spectacle which to spy
All they saw was a young man start to die
His face was set, his visage forlorn
Once upon a dreary, foggy morn
I had meant to continue this in further stanzas, but never did. It must stand alone.