BW:

Four times good luck be on thy pate
For never thinking of an eight
And, may the gods they spirits leaven
For being always true to "seven"
While some may snarl with hate regressive
Thou art, blithe soul , a true obsessive
Galloping blind from dumber to dumber
By fixating on some goddamn nummer.
If mafic can therein be founded
May magic flood you 'til yer drownded!

A