Upon the cobbled streets where shadows lie, Jim Drury walks beneath the evening sky. The Muffin Man, they say with whispered breath, A towering figure draped in myth and death. His height uproots the trick of a fox’s den, Yet merry wits evade his grasp again. For jokes, though polished, rarely find their place, In echoes of the laughter he can't chase. With muffins warm, he wanders long the lanes, While tales of his tall stature break their chains. In jest unseen, he carries evening's song, A gentle giant where the myths belong.