While he was puffing out his jets of wit
Over his swollen-bellied pipe, one thinks,
One thinks, you know, of quite a lot of things.
(Dear unknown God, dear, queer-faced God,
Queer, queer, queer, queer-faced God,
You blanky God, be quiet for half minute,
And when I’ve shut up Rates, and sat on Naboth,
I’ll tell you half a dozen things or so.)
There goes a flock of starlings—
Now half a dozen years ago,