And that perverted soul we call the Bung,
Whose Moods, in turn, are praised or cursed or sung—
I’ve often wondered in my Heart, why he
Remains uncanonised—or else unhung.
From some, indeed, the Milk of Kindness flows:
Another Churl the pointed Insult throws—
But when He cops a Oner on the Beak,
He knows about it all—He Knows—HE KNOWS!
But come! Let’s tap this caravanserai!
I hold a Bob, in case the Kite won’t fly;