This aching heart, and give it rest,—
We’ll want some eggs for Tom-and-Jerry
Could Lethe’s waters o’er me roll,—
These stockings would look better mended!
And bring oblivion to my soul,—
When-will-you-have-that-ditty-ended?
Then haply I, in other skies,—
We’d better have the oysters fried.
Might find the love that earth denies!
There! now at last my dickey’s tied!