As void of fingers as of tact,
Who spilt the mustard on the cloth!
That was the cause of all my woe—
Good lack, I blame my thumbs in vain;
Still on the cloth's expanded snow
I seem to see that yellow stain.
And still you sit and speak me fair,
And still your Butler grimly smiles,
The while I paint in mustard there
A sketch-map of the British Isles.