“I do not think that I can stand much more of this,” said the publisher faintly.
“In that case,” said the author, “I shall, without delay, recite a poem which I have called ‘In vino veritas.’”
In Vino Veritas.
“Singing ’e was. I tell yer, singing
as sweet as kiss me ’and—
a drunken sort o’chune, but swinging
the feet like if yer understand.
“I stood and watched ’is dancin’ shadder,
Lord wot a dancer! ’eel an’ toe.