As others of the stanzas seemed to be.
Stiver.
Why yes, and I am sure it could not tax
Your powers to get a little more inserted—
Falk [clinking glasses with him].
You cram it in, like putty into cracks,
Till lean is into streaky fat converted.
Stiver [unruffled].
Yes, nothing easier—I, too, in my day
Could do the trick.