Where Pompey’s strong arms are oppressed with Pekoe,
And the air waxes faint with the scent of the sloe;
Where malice produces its bitterest fruit,
And the voice of detraction can never be mute;
Where the tints of the story, the shades of the lie
In number though varied, in falsehood may vie,
And the venom of scandal is deepest in dye;
Where virgins of fifty strange ringlets entwine,
In the fond misconception of looking divine?
’Tis the land of the teapot, the realm of the tray.