In the middle of the night
As the stars were burning bright
And the owl in midst of flight
Did catch the sound and the sight
Of those who their tent did pight,

In the middle of the bight.
This at first did seem not right
But the ropes and stays kept tight
As could be seen from that height
Where the soaring of the kite

In the middle of the light
Would cause, on earth, to incite
In creatures small all their might
To turn at once into fright
When cognisant of their plight.

In the middle of the site
Thus began the strangest rite
Which the creatures did excite
When faced by this did it quite
Turn their visage pallid white.

In the midst I now indite,
Though this ode oft seem trite
(It is worth naught but a mite),
Yet to speak without respite
My words all placed are aright:

In the middle of the eight
Where the circles do invite
One to be seen, but in spite,
Three in hex not on its right
Thus it seems to implicate
In the meaning of this date.