And my throat grew hot, as I walked the trail,
My blood in a sizzle, my muscles dry,
A crimson glare in my glorious eye,
And I felt my sinews wither and fail,
Like one who has lavished, for fifty nights,
His pile in a hell of gambling delights,
And is kicked at dawn, from bottle and bed,
And sent to the gulches without a red.
There was no penguin to pick or pluck,
No armadillo’s throat to be stuck,