 Our Mat by Andrew Barton Patterson, read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Gachuk. It came from the prison this morning, close-twisted, neat-lettered, and flat. It lies the hall doorway adorning, a very good style of a mat. Prison-made, how the spirit is moving, as we think of its story of dread. But wiles of the wicked are woven, and spun in its intricate thread. The letters are new, neat and knobby, suggesting a masterly hand. Was it Sykes who half-murdered the bobby, that put the neat D on the hand? Some banker found guilty of latches. It's always called latches, you know. Had Holt any hand in those H's? Had Bertrand illumine that hoe? That T has a look of the gallows. That A's a triangle, I guess. Was it one of the Mount Rennie fellows, who twisted the strands of the S? Was it made by some highly connected, who is doing his spell on his head? Or some wretched woman detected, in stealing her children some bread? Was it speak of a bitter repentance, for the crime that so easily came, of the wearisome length of the sentence, of the sin and the sorrow and shame? A mat, I should call it, a sermon, on sin to all sinners addressed. It would take a keen judge to determine whether writer or reader is best. Will the doorway be hard as a paved stone? I rather would use it than that. I'd as soon wipe my boots on a gravestone, as I would on that darling Hearst mat. The Bulletin, 2nd of April, 1887. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. It came from the prison this morning, close twisted, neat lettered and flat. It lies the hallway adorning, a very good style of mat. Prison made, how the spirit is moving, as we think of its story of dread, what wiles of the wicked are woven, and spun in its intricate thread. The letters are new, neat and knobby, suggesting a masterly hand. Was it Sykes who half murdered the Bobby that put the neat D on the ant? Some banker found guilty of latches, it's always called latches, you know. Had Holt any hand in those H's, did Bertrand illumine that O? That T has a look of the gallows, that A is a triangle, I guess. Was it one of those Mount Rainy fellows who twisted the strands of the S? Was it made by some highly connected who was doing his spell on his head? Was it some wretched woman detected in stealing her children some bread? Does it speak of a bitter repentance for the crime that so easily came, of the wearisome length of the sentence, of the sin and the sorrow and shame? A mat I should call it a sermon on sin to all sinners addressed. It would take a keen judge to determine whether writer or reader is best. Though the doorway be hard as a paved stone, I would rather use it than that. I soon wipe my boots on a gravestone as I would on that Darlinghurst mat. The Bulletin, 2 April, 1887. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Our Mat by Andrew Barton Paterson. Readful LibriVox.org by Craig Franklin. It came from the prison this morning. Close twisted, neat-lettered and flat. It lies the hallway adorning, a very good style of a mat. Prison mate, how the spirit is moving, as we think of its story of dread. What wiles of the wicked are woven and spun in its intricate thread. The letters are new, neat and knobby, suggesting a masterly hand. Was it Sykes who half-murdered the bobby that put the neat D on the end? Some bankers found guilty of latches. It's always called latches, you know. Had halt any hand in those hatches, did Bertrand illumine the owl? That T has a look at the gallows. That A is a triangle, I guess. Was it one of the Mount Rene fellows who twisted the strands of the S? Was it made by some highly connected who is doing his spell on his head? Or some wretched woman detected in stealing her children's and bread? Does it speak of a bitter repentance? For the crime that so easily came of the wearsome length of the sentence of the sin and the sorrow and shame. A mat, I should call it, a sermon on sin to all sinners addressed. It would take a keen judge to determine whether writer or reader is best. Through the doorway, be hard as a paved stone. I rather would use it than that. I'd assume what my boots on a grey stand as I would on that darling Hearst met. The Bulletin, 2nd April 1887. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Our mat by Andrew Barton Patterson, read for librafox.org by Chad Horner from Ballet Claire in County Antony, Northern Ireland, situated in the northeast of the island of Ireland. It came from the prison this morning, close twisted, neat-lettered and flat. It lies the hall doorway adorning, a very good style of a mat. Prison made how the spirit is moving. As we think of its story of dread, what wiles of the wicked are woven and spun in its intricate thread. The letters are new, neat and knobby, suggesting a masterly hand was at Sykes who half murdered the bobby, that put the needy on the and. Some banger find guilty of latches, it's always called latches, you know. Had hold any hand in those etches, did Bertrand illumine that o. That tea has a look of the gallows, that is a triangle, I guess. Was it one of the Mount Rhaeny fellows who twisted the strands of the s? Was it made by some highly connected, who is doing his spell on his head? Or some wretched woman, detected, instilling her children some bread? Was it speak of a bitter repentance? For the crime that so easily came, of the wearisome length of the sentence, of the sin and the sorrow and shame, a mat, I should call it a sermon on sin, to all sinners addressed. It would take a king-judge to determine whether writer or reader is best. Though the doorway be hard as a paved stone, I rather would use it than that. I'd as soon wipe my boots on a gravestone, as I would on that darling-hershed mat. The Bulletin, 2nd of April, 1887. Our Mat, by Andrew Barton Patterson, read for LibriVox.org, by Cornel Nemes in Reno, Nevada. It came from the prison this morning. Close twisted, neat-lettered and flat. It lies the whole doorway adorning a very good style of a mat. How the spirit is moven as we think of its story of dread, what wiles of the wicked are woven and spun in its intricate thread. The letters are new. Neat and knobby, suggesting a masterly hand, was it sikes? O'Halph murdered the bobby that put the neat D on the end. Some banker found guilty of latches. It's always called latches, you know? Headholt, any hand in those edges, did Bertrand illuminate that O? That T has a look of the gallows, that A's a triangle, I guess. Was it one of the Mount Rainy Fellows who twisted that strands of the F? Was it made by some highly connected who is doing his spell on his head? Or some wretched woman detected and stealing her children some bread? Does it speak of a bitter repentance for the crime that so easily came? Of the wearisome length of the sentence of the sin and the sorrow and shame? A mat. I should call it a sermon on sin to all sinners addressed. It would take a keen judge to determine whether writer or reader is best. Though the doorway be hard as a paved stone, I rather would use it than that. I'd as soon wipe my boots on a gravestone as I would on that darling Hearst mat. The bulletin, 2nd April 1887. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Our Mat. by Andrew Barton Patterson. Read for LibreBox.org by Greg Giordano. Newport Ritchie, Florida. It came from the prison this morning. Close twisted, neat-lettered, and flat. It lies the hall doorway adorning, a very good style of a mat. Prison made, how the spirit is moven, as we think of its story of dread. But wiles of the wicked are woven, and spun in its intricate thread. The letters are new, neat and knobby, suggesting a masterly hand. Was it Sykes who half murdered the bobby, that put the neat D on the and? Some banker found guilty of lashes. It's always called lashes, you know. Had Holt any hand in those H's? Did Bertrand illumine that O? That T has a look of the gallows, the A's at triangle, I guess. Was it one of the Mount Rennie fellows, who twisted the strands of the S? Was it made by some highly connected, who was doing his spell on his head, or some wretched woman detected, in stealing her children some bread? Does it speak of a bitter repentance, for the crime that so easily came? Of the wearisome length of the sentence? Of the sin and the sorrow and shame? A mat, I should call it a sermon, on sin to all sinners addressed. It would take a keen judge to determine whether writer or reader is best. Through the doorway be hard as a paved stone. I rather would use it than that. I'd as soon wet my boots on a gravestone, as I would on that darling Hearst mat. The Bulletin. 2 April, 1887. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. by Andrew Barton Patterson, read for LibriVox.org by Hannah Utterhane. It came from the prison this morning, close-twisted, neat-lettered and flat. It lies the whole doorway adorning, a very good style of a mat. The letters are made, have the spirit is moving, as we think of its story of dread. What wiles of the wicked are woven, as the spun in its intricate thread. The letters are new, need the knobby, suggesting a masterly hand. Was it Sykes, who half-murdered the bobby, that put the knitty on the end? From banker found guilty of lashes, it's always colored lashes, you know, had hold any hand in those ages, did Bertrand illuminate that O? That T has a look of the gallows, that aces a triangle like S? Was it one of the Mount Rainy Fellows, who twisted the strands of the S? Was it made by some highly connected, who is doing his spell on his head? Or some wretched woman detected, instilling her children some bread? Does it speak of a bitter repentance, for the crime that so easily came, of the wearisome length of the sentence of the sin and the sorrow and shame? A mat, I should call it a sermon, on sin to our sinners at rest. It would take a keen judge to determine, whether writer or reader is best. So the doorway be hard as a paved stone, I rather would use it than that. I'd as soon wipe my boots on a gravestone, as I would on that darling-hurst mat. The Bulletin, 2nd of April, 1887, end of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Or Mat, by Andrew Barton Patterson, read for Libervox.org by Jennifer Stearns. It came from the prison this morning, clothes twisted, neat-lettered and flat. It lies the hall doorway adorning, a very good style of a mat. Even made, how the spirit is woven, as we think of its story of dread, what wiles of the wicked are woven, and spun in its intricate thread. The letters are new, neat and knobby, suggesting a masterly hand. Was it Sykes, who half-mortared the bobby, that put the neat D on the ant? Some banker found guilty of lashes. It's always called lashes, you know. Had Holt any hand in those ages, did Bertrand illumine that O? That T has a look of the gallows, that A is a triangle, I guess. Was it one of the Mount Rennie Fellows, who twisted the strands of the S? Was it made by some highly connected, who was doing his spell on his head? Or some wretched woman detected, in stealing her children some bread? Does it speak of a bitter repentance, for the crime that so easily came? Of the wearer some length of the sentence, of the sin and the sorrow and shame? A mat, I should call it a sermon, on sin to all sinners addressed. It would take a keen judge to determine whether writer or reader is best. Though the doorway be hard as a paved stone, I rather would use it than that. I'd as soon wipe my boots on a gravestone, as I would on that darling Hearst mat. The bulletin, 2nd of April, 1887. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Your Mat by Andrew Barton Patterson. Read for LibriVox.org by Kay Hand. It came from the prison this morning. Close twisted, neat-lettered and flat. It lies the hall doorway adorning. A very good style of a mat. Prison made, how the spirit is moving, as we think of its story of dread, what wiles of the wicked are woven and spun in its intricate thread. The letters are new, neat and knobby, suggesting a masterly hand. Was it Sykes, who half-murdered the bobby, that put the neat D on the and? Some banker found guilty of lashes. It's always called lashes, you know. Had Holt any hand in those H's? Did Bertrand illumine that O? That T has a look of the gallows, that A's a triangle, I guess. Was it one of the Mount Rennie Fellows who twisted the strands of the S? Was it made by some highly connected, who is doing his spell on his head? Or some wretched woman detected in stealing her children some bread? Does it speak of a bitter repentance for the crime that so easily came? Of the weary some length of the sentence, of the sin and the sorrow and shame? A mat, I should call it a sermon, on sin to all sinners addressed. It would take a king-judge to determine whether writer or reader is best. Though the doorway be hard as a paved stone, I would rather use it than that. I'd as soon wipe my boots on a gravestone as I would on that darling-hurst mat. The Bulletin, 2nd April, 1887. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Our Mat by Andrew Barton Patterson, read for LibriVox.org by Leanne Howlett. It came from the prison this morning, close-twisted, neat-lettered and flat. It lies the hall doorway adorning, a very good style of a mat. Even made, how the spirit is moven, as we think of its story of dread. What wiles of the wicked are woven, and spun in its intricate thread? The letters are new, neat and knobby, suggesting a masterly hand. Was it Sykes, who half-murdered the Bobby, that put the neat D on the and? Some banker found guilty of laches. It's always called laches, you know. Had Holt any hand in those ages? Had Bertrand illumined that O? That T has a look of the gallows, that A's a triangle, I guess. Was it one of the Mount Rennie Fellows, who twisted the strands of the S? Was it made by some highly connected, who's doing his spell on his head? Or some wretched woman detected in stealing her children some bread? Does it speak of a bitter repentance for the crime that so easily came? Of the weirsome length of the sentence, of the sin and the sorrow and shame? A mat. I should call it a sermon, on sin, to all sinners addressed. It would take a keen judge to determine whether writer or reader is best. Though the doorway be hard is a paved stone, I rather would use it than that. I'd as soon wipe my boots on a gravestone, as I would on that darling Hearst mat. The Bulletin, 2nd of April, 1887. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Our Mat by Andrew Barton Patterson, read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. It came from the prison this morning, clothes twisted, neat-lettered and flat. It lies the hall doorway adorning, a very good style of a mat, prison-made, how the spirit is moving as we think of its story of dread, what wiles of the wicked are woven and spun in its intricate thread. The letters are new, neat and knobby, suggesting a mastery hand. Was it Sykes who have murdered the bobby that put the neat D on the hand? Some banker found guilty of letchas, it's always called letchas, you know, had holt any hand in those H's? Did Bertrand illumine that zero? That T has a look of the gallows, that A's a triangle, I guess. Was it one of the Mount Rennie Fellows who twisted the strands of the S? Was it made by some highly connected who is doing his spell on his head, or some wretched woman detected in stealing her children some brand? Does it speak of a bitter repentance for the crime that so easily gained, of the wearisome length of the sentence of the sin, and the sorrow and shame? A mat. I should call it a sermon on sin, to all sinners addressed. It would take a keen judge to determine whether writer or reader is best. Though the doorway be hard as a pavestone, I'd rather would use it than that. I'd as soon wipe my boots on a gravestone, as I would on that darling Hearst mat. The Bulletin, 2 April 1887. In the poem, this recording is in the public domain. Our Mat by Andrew Barton Peterson, read for LibriVox.org by Shelley Cassandra. It came from the prison this morning, close twisted, neat-lettered, and flat. It lies the hall doorway adorning, a very good style of a mat. Women made, how the spirit is moven, as we think of its story of dread. What wiles of the wicked are woven, and spun in its intricate thread? The letters are new, neat, and knobby, suggesting a masterly hand. Was it Sykes, who half-murdered the bobby, then put the neat D on the end? Some banker found guilty of latches. It's always called latches, you know. Had Holt any hand in those H's? Had Bertrand illumined that O? That T has a look of the gallows, that A's a triangle, I guess. Was it one of the Mount Rennie Fellows, who twisted the strands of the S? Was it made by some highly connected, who is doing his spell on his head, or some wretched woman detected, in stealing her children some bread? Was it speak of a bitter repentance? For the crime that so easily came? Of the wearisome length of the sentence? Of the sin and the sorrow and shame? A mat, I should call it a sermon, on sin to all sinners addressed. It would take a keen judge to determine whether writer or reader is best, though the doorway be hard as a paved stone, I rather would use it than that. I'd as soon wipe my boots on a gravestone. As I would on that darling-hurst mat. The Bulletin, 2 April 1887, end of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Our Mat by Andrew Barton Patterson, read for LibriVox.org by Skip. It came from the prison this morning, close-twisted, neat-lettered and flat, and lies the hall doorway adorning, a very good style of a mat. Prison made, how the spirit is moving, as we think of its story of dread, what wiles of the wicked are woven, and spun in its intricate thread. The letters are new, neat and knobby, suggesting a masterly hand. Was it Sykes who half-murdered the bobby, that put the neat D on the and? Some banker found guilty of latches. It's always called latches, you know. Had Holt any hand in those H's, did Bertrand illuminate that O? That T has a look of the gallows, that A is a triangle, I guess. Was it one of the Mount Rennie Fellows who twisted the strands of the S? Was it made by some highly connected, who was doing his spell on his head? Or some wretched woman detected, and stealing her children some bread? Was it speak of a bitter repentance, for the crime that so easily came? Of the wearersome length of the sentence, of the sin and the sorrow and shame? A mat, I should call it a sermon, on sin to all sinners addressed. It would take a keen judge to determine whether writer or reader is best. Though the doorway be hard as a paved stone, I rather would use it than that. I'd as soon wipe my boots on a gravestone, as I would on that darling Hirst mat. The Bulletin, 2 April 1887. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Our mat by Andrew Barton Patterson, read for LibriVox.org by Thomas Peter. It came from the prison this morning, close twisted, neat lettered, and flat. It lies the whole doorway adorning, a very good style of a mat. Prison mate, how the spirit is moving, as we think of its story of dread. What wiles of the wicked are woven, and spun in its intricate thread? The letters are new, neat and knobby, suggesting a masterly hand. Was it Sykes, who half murdered the barbie, that put the neat D on the end? Some banker found guilty of latches. It's always called latches, you know. Had Holt any hand in those H's? Did Bertrand illumine that O? That T has a look of the gallows? That A is a triangle, I guess. Was it one of the Mount Rennie Fellows, who twisted the strands of the S? Was it made by some highly connected, who is doing his spell on his head? Or some wretched woman detected in stealing her children some bread? Does it speak of a bitter repentance for the crime that so easily came? Of the wearisome length of the sentence of the sin and the sorrow and shame? A mat, I should call it a sermon on sin to all sinners addressed. It would take a keen judge to determine whether a writer or reader is best. Though the doorway be hard as a paved stone, I rather would use it than that. I'd assume wipe my boots on a gravestone, as I would on that darling Hurst mat. The Bulletin, April 2nd, 1887. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Our Mat by Andrew Barton Patterson Read for LibriVox.org by Tavarish It came from the prison this morning, close twisted, neat lettered and flat. It lies the whole doorway adorning, a very good style of a mat. Prison made, how this spirit is moving as we think of its story of dread, what wiles of the wicked are woven and spun in its intricate thread. The letters are new, neat and knobby, suggesting a masterly hand. Was it Sykes who half murdered the bobby that put the neat D on the end? Some banker found guilty of Lachars. It's always called Lachars, you know. Had Holt any hand in those H's? Did Bertrand illumine that O? That T has a look of the gallows, that A's a triangle, I guess? Was it one of the Mount Rainy Fellows who twisted the strands of the S? Was it made by some highly connected, who is doing his spell on his head? Or some wretched woman detected in stealing her children some bread? Was it speak of a bitter repentance for the crime that so easily came? Of the wearisome length of the sentence of the sin and the sorrow and shame? Ah, Mat, I should call it a sermon on sin to all sinners addressed. It would take a keen judge to determine whether writer or reader is best. Though the doorway be hard as a paved stone, I rather would use it than that. I'd as soon wipe my boots on a gravestone as I would on that darling Hearst mat. The Bulletin, 2nd of April 1887 End of poem, this recording is in the public domain.