But not a soul could drink!
My very hair did steam. The deuce!
That ever this should be;
Yea, drunken subs did crawl on knees,
Fit subjects for D. T.
About, about, in reel and rout,
The mess room danced at sight;
The bottles, like a witch’s oils,
Burnt green, and red, and white.
And both my eyes from too much “fizz,”