Adam's pale ale never rises,
There's no strychnine, boys, in that!
What to us the size of bottles?
Pint or quart, who cares a jot?
While we to tea confine our throttles,
Ours will always be a Pot.
(Only mind lest "Fine Young Hyson"
Be a synonyme for "sloe:"
And beware the aqueous poison
Which from filthy Thames doth flow.)