In a kibosh style that a child might spot,
And tug hard ropes till my knuckles go blue?
My Yot!
What makes me snooze in a narrow close bunk,
Till the cramp my limbs doth twist and knot,
And brave discomfort, and face blue-funk?
My Yot!
What makes me gammon my chummiest friends
To “try the fun”—which I know’s all rot—
And earn the dead-cut in which all this ends?