said to charioteer o sun ” Ma pipes can beat thy harp anyday.” An he agreed an said that winner would av the other. A thort am in here, either way.

 So r blew till ma cheeks puffed art like Minerva wat slung
 pipe cos it did that an med her look ugly.

 a lost, an charioteer has me nar, “Ah-h-h! why r tha now ripping me apart? A pipes not value of ma life!”

Ma living skin is ripped off from ma limbs, ma whole bodies a flaming wound, wi nerves and veins and innards open to air.

 An all you grieving folk a shed tears
 on fruitful Earth, drop dahn to her deepest veins, as drip moistening dews,—and, gathering as a spout, turned uppards from her secret-labyrinth caves,

 to spurt, sparkling, in sun-snogged air,  clearest river in land through which fast flows between steep banks dahn to sea: and is named atter us  “The Marsyas”

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