They were out of the pot ere I came within sight.
But pray what's this black stuff? Pat, you rogue, come confess,
For I'm sure it was you made this horrible mess.
What! 'tis fish-sauce, you say? 'Twill a source prove of pain,
And will beckon the trout to your mouth back again."
Now all are supplied,
But when you divide
What is small 'mong a number, there's not much a-piece.
'Twas a sum, Murphy thought,
In division called short.