My anguish is sore and my comfort's brief,
And nought but blue pills can ease my grief,
(As I moan and I cry, Woe's me!)
We gorged plum-pudding and hot mince pies,
(Oh the dinner was fine to see!)
And other nameless atrocities,
The weight of which on my—bosom lies.
(And I moan and I cry, Woe's me!)
We drank dry Clicquot and rare old port,
(Oh the dinner was fine to see!)