Should it e'er be my lot to ride backwards that way, At the door of the Crown I will certainly stay; I'll summon the landlord—I'll call for the Bowl, And drink a deep draught to the health of my soul! Whatever may hap, I'll taste of the tap, To keep up my spirits when brought to the crap! For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of St. I’ll buzz him for you. I'll do anything in reason for you, old top; but no pig in a poke. He sucked at her neck, biting her hard, leaving red marks that disappeared as soon as he made them. Get on with it, then.
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