And leaves awhile my common dips and moulds.
All raving now, at yonder area gate,
The moping “bobbies” to the cooks complain
That soldiers, with their padded breasts elate,
Molest their ancient privilege and reign.
Beneath this hingeless lid, bound round with braid,
Wherein no anti-vermin dare to creep
(Each one done brown, aside for ever laid),
The ancient tutors of my smoking sleep.
The bull-like voice of nicotinian Bob,