It was a cool December morning.  The wet grass tickling his
feet, John Luvet was as happy as a man may possibly be.  The
sun peeking at him through the sycamores leaves, laughing at
his laughter, singing along with his song:

    'Hey, it's a beautiful morning
     hey, I'm on my way back home
     hey there lady hey you gnome
     it's a glorious moment
     hear hear, for this is mine poem'

The birds, hearing his song joined him with a tune of their
own:

    'There goes John Luvet
      all wet from the dew
      hey there John Luvet
      we want to come too'

In the near distance, down by the stream, Johns little hut
appeared.  His hut was shining gold and silver, painted by
the flowers and the sun.  It was truly a great day for John
Luvet, for a short hour ago he received the news, the
magical news, he was blessed with a son.

Now John is no ordinary man, no one ever took him for a
fool.  John is a clever john; his wisdom being his might for
he is only, just nearly, two feet of height.  On that
magical morning our friend John was full of joy, his son was
born, no less than on the first day of the
Jayamunda-duangchinda holiday.

Then suddenly, a single bolt of lightning struck his head.
Two minutes later and he was dead.  And the birds were
singing:

    'There goes John Luvet
     he felt no pain
     his son crying out with laughter
     as his life went
     down the drain'