The Mournhowe Register

Without Open your door, the night is thin, a horse's skull would come within. We've walked the lanes since Christmas fell, and know your names, and wish you well. Within The night is thin, the latch is tight, we keep no room for skulls tonight. Sing us a verse we cannot best, or take your bones back to their rest. Without Your beer is flat, your fire is low, your wife has told the whole row so. Rhyme against that, if rhyme you can — we had it, sir, from your own man. Within Our beer is flat, we'll grant you true, but flat beer's better shared with you than kept from one who rhymes so fair. Come in, come in — and mind the chair.