To hear a thing talk that had ever been dumb;
Tho’ Crop said his P⸺ ne’er obey’d his command,
But always lay down when he wish’d him to stand.
This damnable riot in Crop’s private part,
Baffl’d the Priest and resisted his art,
So he swore, if P⸺ did not cease making a route,
He’d pull out his c—d—m, and muffle his snout.
Not a crab-louse car’d P⸺ for the Priest and his laws;
He stood up for his prepuce, and spoke to the cause;
His language was nervous, his reasoning clear,