With drunkard-dregs, and holds his words so true
That—hear the latest oath they say he swore—
With his own fist he’d choke his very windpipe
Had he the night before in fuddled fit
Made a fool’s freakish present of the world
He dubs his own, and thereby forfeited
His right to one sole single place thereon.
Whether, then too his walk’s a zigzag waddle,
As when at night he seeks his bed, I know not;
But to my thinking, both are on all fours.