MAYST thou die desp'rate in some dirty pool, Catching, conceited, choleric old fool! Thus prays thy lodger with his heart and pen; And all who know thee sure will say—Amen. Patience, ye gods, to write my bill of fare! Stale bread of bran ill-baked, and dead small beer; Tripe from the tanner's; bacon dung-hill fed; Shrove-Tuesday fowls; and flank bull-beef instead Of young rump-steaks, of fat without a grain, Stewed with leek-broth for sauce in frying-pan; Mutton last left upon the market-day, And then avowed the best in all her way. Hereof complaint is made in manner meek, When lo! her pig's-eyes glare, her tawny cheek Unshrivelling bloateth bluff; then pert, and proud Of nasty craft, short off does Granny scud. But since her buttock-bubbies thus she dares Just at mine elbow boldly to reverse Pat for the purpose, with sarcastic switch I can't forbear to flog the wicked witch. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DREAM SONG: 1 by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR DOWN THE MISSISSIPPI: 2. HEAT by JOHN GOULD FLETCHER STORM AT SEA (2) by ALCAEUS OF MYTILENE TRAVELOGUE by EVA K. ANGLESBURG THE ELDER WOMAN'S SONG: 3, FR. KING LEAR'S WIFE by GORDON BOTTOMLEY |