That horrid word "Spout"
No sooner came out,
Than Winifred Pryce would turn her about,
And with scorn on her lip,
And a hand on each hip,
"Spout" herself till her nose grew red at the tip,
"You thundering willain,
I know you'd be killing
Your wife,—ay, a dozen of wives,—for a shilling!
You may do what you please,