Twist, like a fiend's breath from a distant room
Diffusing through the passage, crept; the smell
Deepening had power upon him, and he mixt
His fancies with the billow-lifted bay
Of Biscay, and the rollings of a ship.
And on that night he made a little song,
And called his song "The Song of Twist and Plug,"
And sang it: scarcely could he make or sing.
"Rank is black plug, though smoked in wind and rain;
And rank is twist, which gives no end of pain;