You can only squeak—squeak
Like a coon,
In a clamorous appealing from your indigestion’s pangs—
In a mad expostulation with the gnawing of its fangs,
And a sense of utter loathing for the pills,
For the pills, pills, pills, pills,
Pills, pills, pills—
And the comrades of the pills,
The pills, bills, ills!
Oh, the very name of Christmas all my soul with terror fills.