My choking, wheezing, sore wind-pipe,
Nor am I speaking now of wine,
Nor yet, from Marryat learning,
Of what the Cockney would define—
Poor A as ever spurning—
"The sime in nime, but not in shipe,"
The pipe of port; the boatswain's pipe.
No! Now I sing—but not with praise,
To praise it would be rummer
Than any other sort of craze,