This I did, and nothing more.
To my speech at last succeeding, I asked gravely why the bleeding,
Helpless, ill-clad, ill-fed woman had been out-cast from the store?
And the answer from the monster who had been this woman’s wrongster
Was, she had not filthy lucre to pay off her whisky score;
He’d be blowed, or something stronger, if he’d give her any more;
And he thought her quite a bore.
Then I felt my fingers itching, and my muscles all a twitching,
To seize the rascal by the throat, and stretch him straight upon the floor;
But he gave a loud hoarse chuckle, let me see his mighty knuckle,