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The harridan who holds the inn
      At which I toss a pot,
Is old and uglier than sin,--
      I'm glad she knows me not.
Indeed, for me it's hard to think,
      Although my pow's like snow,
She was the lass so fresh and pink
      I courted long ago.
      
I wronged her, yet it's sadly true
      She wanted to be wronged:
They mostly do, although 'tis you,
      The male bloke who is thonged.
Well, anyway I left her then
      To sail across the sea,
And no doubt she had other men,
      And soon lost sight of me.

So now she is a paunchy dame
      And mistress of the inn,
With temper tart and tounge to blame,
      Moustache and triple chin.
And though I have no proper home
      Contentedly I purr,
And from my whiskers wipe the foam,
      --Glad I did not wed her.

Yet it's so funny sitting here
      To stare into her face;
And as I raise my mug of beer
      I dream of our disgrace.
And so I come and come each day
      To more and more enjoy
The joke--that fifty years away
      I was her honey boy.

Added: 25 Mar 2002 | Last Read: 4 Sep 2026 3:33 AM | Viewed: 3970 times

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