| Please start without me, I'm on leave |
| And I've something that's hid up my sleeve |
| Is this a dagger? |
| Or far Wagga-Wagga |
| Or an old Eton fagger |
| I'll produce it when |
| I'm a master of Zen |
| The time's right, and then |
| There's no chance of a sudden reprieve |
| I'm doomed to remain |
| On this long-delayed plane |
| On a far darkling plain |
| For fourty-eight hours |
| I must grade all these flours |
| I shall drink whiskey sours |
| There once was a Lim'rick for sale |
| Which came with a free pint of ale |
| And a packet of nuts |
| With a taste of goat butts |
| And some choice sirloin cuts |
| It was Ruddles' best |
| Called Old Everquest |
| And stank of birds' nests |
| Which was rather too old and too stale |
| The old man from Dover |
| Who smuggled it over |
| Said "I'm glad it's over" |
| Fresh blood was required |
| To make it inspired |
| To set it on fire |