The lights rolled over, and were extinguished. Let us walk about. Should it e'er be my lot to ride backwards that way, At the door of the Crown I will certainly stay; I'll summon the landlord—I'll call for the Bowl, And drink a deep draught to the health of my soul! Whatever may hap, I'll taste of the tap, To keep up my spirits when brought to the crap! For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of St. Mike sat down, his body too large for the petite blue couch. Make no promises on a night where I have burdened you with such awful knowledge.
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