Phil Blood. Well, he was six foot three, with
a squint to make you skeer'd,
His face all scabb'd, and twisted and stabb'd,
with carroty hair and beard,
Sour as the drink in Bitter Chink, sharp as a
grizzly's squeal,
Limp in one leg, for a leaden egg had nick'd
him in the heel.
No beauty was he, but a sight to see, all stript
to the waist and bare,