When I can't see a hole through a ladder,
It mounts on the sly to my brain.
Then push round the glasses, be cosey,
Fill bumpers to whiskey and whim;
Good luck to each man, while his nose he
Hangs pleasantly over the brim!
There's nothing remarkably odd in
A gent who to nap is inclined;
He can't want a blanket while noddin',
When he's two or three sheets in the wind.