Rum-ti-iddi-ti-ti.
Says she, “Don’t be frightened at names,
You’ve always to Rome had a tendency!
Stand up for Confession; your game’s
To struggle for priestly ascendency.
Cut the priest a back-way to the house,
And you’ve cut through the Isthmus of Darien:
Fathers, husbands, are not worth a souse
After that, my fine stout-legged Tractarian.”
Rum-ti-iddi-ti-ti.