I like that honest fellow, tho' poor, with eye forlorn,
Said he, "O Mister Pleeceman, I wish I wasn't born"—
I've sought again to sketch him, above their ghastly rest,
He indicates a label, on every corpse's breast.
'Twas down an empty cellar, below the bottle shelves,
They looked as they were sleeping, in fact, they looked themselves,
The daughters of Herr Zazel, the wife of Zazel, and
The Pleeceman asked for Zazel, was he in Switzerland?
The oldest native, answered a deputating clutch