And thrust his fingers through his hair,
All shaggy in the want of shag.
And still he said, "My life is dreary.
No Baccy, boys," he said.
He said, "I am aweary, aweary;
I'd rather far be dead."
To him one end of old cheroot
Were sweetest root that ever grew.
No honey were due substitute
For "Our Superior Honey-Dew."