I wrung a sirloin from thy grudging hand,
Did not thy boy, a cheeky little brute
With shifty eyes, mislay the thing en route,
Depositing at my address the bones
Intended for the dog of Mr. Jones?
I sometimes think that never runs so thin
The milk as when it leaves the milkman's tin;
That every link the sausageman prepares
Harbours some wandering Towser unawares.
And Binns, the baker (whom a murrain seize!),