Says my Lord to his Cook, "You son of a punk, How comes it I see you thus every day drunk? Physicians, they say, once a month do allow A man for his health to get drunk as a sow." "That is right," quoth the cook, "but the day they don't say, So for fear I should miss it, I'm drunk every day." @3"New Foundling Hospital for Wit." 1786@1. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HAPPY WIND by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY by JOHN DRYDEN SHILOH; A REQUIEM by HERMAN MELVILLE THE NOBLEMAN AND THE PENSIONER by GOTTLIEB KONRAD PFEFFEL HUGH SELWYN MAUBERLEY: 4 by EZRA POUND FALSTAFF'S SONG by EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG NYMPH GOING TO BED by JONATHAN SWIFT IN APRIL by MARGARET LEE ASHLEY LINES ON THE DEATH OF PHILIP MEADOWS by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD |