The lanky hank of a she in the inn over there
 Nearly killed me for asking the loan of a glass of beer;
 May the devil grip the whey-faced slut by the hair,
 And beat bad manners out of her skin for a year.

 That parboiled ape, with the toughest jaw you will see
 On virtue's path, and a voice that would rasp the dead,
 Came roaring and raging the minute she looked at me,
 And threw me out of the house on the back of my head!

 If I asked her master he'd give me a cask a day;
 But she, with the beer at hand, not a gill would arrange!
 May she marry a ghost and bear him a kitten, and may
 The High King of Glory permit her to get the mange.