is this the Tower of London.
A whistling cage of weather,
sat on the city's edge.
But if you would find one c***k,
one slit through a man may wedge his finger.
Then you have magic, sir,
and there's an end of it.
From sticks to stones,
as skull to bones.
Tight is this prison bound,
and clever is he to be free,
thinks he a path have found.
