The candle burns low, the night is old,
The poet smiles at his coconut palm,
Smiles at his coal-sack; finds a couple of psalm
In a book with gilt letters in gold –
“The World’s Prune Juice”. It leaves him cold,
And he shivers, with his water becalm-
-Ed. Oh! Oh! Oh! My eggs are dry, my arm
Is quiet and my leg is waiting – how bold
It waits and waits (for whom, no-one knows);
Except maybe the cleaner with a secret life,
Two sore feet and a broken nose,
A narrow mind with dentures for a wife.
And so the prune juice from the cup overspilleth,
The candle spits, gutters, shivers, passes and goes out.

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