To T. Poole

Plucking flowers from the Galaxy
On the pinions of Abstraction,
I did quite forget to ax 'e,
Whether you have an objaction,
With us to swill 'e and to swell 'e
And make a pig-stie of your belly.
A lovely limb most dainty
Of a ci-devant Mud-raker,
I makes bold to acquaint 'e
We've trusted to the Baker:
And underneath it satis
Of the subterrene apple
By the erudite 'clep'd taties--
With which, if you'ld wish to grapple,
As sure as I'm a sloven,
The clock will not strike twice one,
When the said dish will be out of the oven,
And the dinner will be a nice one.

Besides we've got some cabbage.
You Jew-dog, if you linger,
May the Itch in pomp of scabbage
Pop out between each finger.