Oh, "lark," which all the "Comiques" sing,
And every drunken rowdy pup, too;
Sure you're a vicious, vulgar thing
As ever toper swigged a cup to.
Hints of the boozy and the blue
Surround you; sodden brains you soften;
Yet rhymsters make a song of you,
And rowdies sing it—far too often.
The aim of every loose-lipped lout
Appears to be to "lark" divinely;