High upon the windswept summit
Of Woodpecker Mountain lived Amos McGurk.
He was a badman, a shootist, an outlaw
He lived by the gun and Noah's old spelling book.

Tho' more than two centuries had skidded
And slid down the razor of Old Father Time
Amos still lived using "Y" for the "Th"
F-types Esses, and iambic rhyme.

He'd "thee" and "thou" more than a Quaker
Until one day an Irishman came
Pointed out bluntly that Amos was backwards
And that English was living and never was tame.

He told him that English took words from all over
From Arabic, Latin, even Choctaw and Cree
And especially from the widespread Celtic language
"Such as the word for the bold Rapaire."

Amos broke down and wept 'til his eyes ached
He knew than that spelling was not his forté
His back it was broken on "humour" and "humor"
And he was drawn upon the rack of misspellings today.

Many years have passed since Amos he left us
He was right that spelling should matter a lot.
But he realized then that he wasn't all-knowing
And for his criticisms no one gave a jot.

       -- Whittlesey Crumbcomb, Pomes I Writ All By Myself
          (Lewdington-on-Sur: Fiveshooter Press, 1883)