And give it a check with a pawn.
I’ve fasted, since dining at Buncle’s,
Two days with true Perceval zeal—
And now must make up at my Uncle’s.
By getting a duplicate meal.
“OH MY PROPHETIC SOUL—MY UNCLE!”
No Peachum it is, or young Lockit,
That rifles my fob with a snatch;
Alas! I must pick my own pocket,