SUNK in the thickets under the chill of the moon. Light the bush that will bring them to me. Pipe my music over the hills and listen for the hoofs of the lambs. I'll wait. And I'll conjure...
"The Baby Eater,"
Sketch: Vol. 37
, Article 10.
Available at: https://lib.dr.iastate.edu/sketch/vol37/iss6/10