Taking sips under the bridges
In crowns of gold you must rely
So men of cold can try to fly
One sees you in the glorious missions
Which could be the dreariest issues
The joy in the verses of poems
Is also the ploy of the omens
Where, wonder I, do I look for?
Whispers of words of hope
Holy blessings from a pope
Empty caresses with a whore
Come on, you bloody little bastard
Get out of that stinky hole
For you're not rabbit nor mole
And I shall bring you no hazard
Archibald Fairfax VII, Earl of Hillsborough
