For many a gallant fellow has discovered with a shock o' late
That after 8 p.m. it's still a crime to sell a chocolate.
Though you may haunt the bar till ten and confidently mutter "Scotch,"
She may not even clamour for a humble slab of butterscotch,
And should the heat suggest an ice—may I be rolled out flat if I
Distort the truth—it's courting gaol that harmless wish to gratify.
As for yourself, if you should yearn for blest tobacco's medium
In those long waits between the Acts to while away the tedium,
And find you're out of cigarettes, remember that to sell any
A minute past the fatal hour is counted as a felony.