I've the simplest of palates; absurd it may be,
But I almost could dine on a poulet-au-riz,
Fish and soup and omelette and that—but the deuce—
There were to be woodcocks, and not Charlotte Russe!
So pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho!
So pleasant it is to have money.
Your Chablis is acid, away with the hock,
Give me the pure juice of the purple Médoc;
St. Peray is exquisite; but, if you please,
Some Burgundy just before tasting the cheese.