You will draw, I trust, a solace for the strange and alien scene
Where you undergo purgation in a stuffy quarantine.
Further, if a homesick feeling sets you itching in the scalp
With a wave of poignant longing for the odour of an Alp,
Let this thought (a thing of splendour) help to keep your pecker up—
You have had a high promotion; you are now a Premier's pup!
You shall guard his sacred portals, you shall eat from off his plate,
Mix with private secretaries, move behind the veil of State,
And at Ministerial councils, as a special form of treat,
You shall sniff at Winston's trousers, you shall fondle Curzon's feet.