It was early in the morning while
the barman sat upon his chair.
He sipped upon a cup of tea
without a single care.
A rustling outside the house,
just beyond the door,
stole his mind from pleasant thoughts,
which made him rather sore.
Next thing he knew, the door was gone;
the mob had broke right through.
The barman gave a shriek of fright,
not knowing what to do.
His daughter, she was sleeping,
upstairs, cozy in her bed.
Laura couldn't help him now;
he was as good as dead.
"I'll run!" he thought. "I'm fast, you know!
They won't get me yet!"
And so he got into a stance
and took off like a jet.
The mob was shocked
but not so slow. They took off running too.
They supposed it was what's right;
for them, it was all quite new.
They wondered about the etiquette:
should they shout and scream and holler?
After all, others slept;
it was quite an early hour.
Lamps went flying, tables turned.
Outside, the mob did take.
They followed behind their victim,
leaving destruction in their wake.
All the while, the barman ran,
shooting glances over-shoulder.
He ducked and dodged the trees and twigs
before he hid behind a boulder.
The mob, they stopped dead in their tracks
for they couldn't see him.
They stood quite still, all confused.
(The mob was rather dim.)
The barman shouted out with glee
then realized his mistake.
The mob had found him once again!
So he headed for the lake.