With some passable Veuve Clicquot,
Drier than Macaulay’s Essays,
Cheering as a nigger rag-time,
Followed by some fine old brandy,
All produced by smiling Camille,
Now a poilu, late of Prince’s.
Then they wandered to the Tour Blanche
For the usual evening revel,
Feeling very bright and merry,
Found the doors were barred against them.