The dear old queen, quoth the queer old dean,
Saw me killing my parrot (or peeling my carrot,
As some people call it, or feeling the spirit, or spilling the ferret)
On the floor of a tarragon garret

Afar a lone gong mourned a love long gone
While near the dame screamed my dear name in my ear
And complained that her loot was fame, or her foot was lame
As I sat there, thrilled to the bone, for my little game
Was surely billed to the throne