The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your tears wash out a Word of it.
The Pickled Finger wrote; and, having writ,
Realized: Red Wine had dulled its Wit,
Nor its sobriety could change a Line,
Nor all its tears wash out a Word of it.