But our hearts beat high for the Strasbourg pie, for two-pronged forks are keen,
And our knives are sharp as we twang the harp and batter the old tureen!
While the limpets laugh and the winkle wails and the hermit-crab is sore,
And the pensive puffin tries hard to learn the Song of the Stevedore;
For the gleesome gull flaps his white, white wings and longs for a mild cigar,
As the simple lads smoke Intimidads and sigh for the Capstan Bar!
(Hearty applause from the umbrella of the principal tobacconist. The Vicar shakes his head, and fears the poem is getting a little too convivial. The C. P. only wishes he knew how it was going to end. But, putting on the expression of a bland Bishop on a bicycle, in a sweet voice, tinged with sorrow, he continues.)
Ah! 'tis passing sweet when the day is done, and the craven cringles croon,
And the snackfrews start in the village cart, in sight of the silver moon;