The night went to pot, the night went ill. Poor Biggering found it a bitter pill. A Circus of fleas, the children it would please... Ruined intentions by so few who demanded his arrest. The fleas would grow hungry Biggering would attest. A Special diet, a special feast, Only the best for his rare beasts. The cart was cold, foolish to leave him be, Outside not far, sat the key. Bones and sinew, as good as a rope and a hook. Even before escape they called him a crook! "It's just business!" he called as he ran through the night. The monks would take him in, yes, they just might! But the fleas he wondered, a night without their meal, The danger was there, but Biggering didn't know how real. The morning would come soon, he would check then. Ill tempered and mean, the hundred fleas started to revolt, Their cage couldn't hold them, as they began to bolt. Flea against flea the strong ate the weak, Till four remained, perched on the peak.