Ye damsels of Castalia, Melpomene and Thalia, Extenuate an alien that languishes in woe, Dan Cupid has surprised me, waylaid and pauperised me, Why thus he martyrised me, is what I wish to know. Exiled in this fair city, a paragon of pity, I lucubrate my ditty and catalogue to tell Of the beauties of that matron, my connoisseur and patron, That consort fit for Satan, she's the Star of Sunday's Well.
Expressly fabricated for to be venerated Her weight is estimated at fully fifteen stone, The undulating ocean recalls her vagrant motion, Magnanimous devotion I render her alone. She's blooming and she's bonny with real estate and money, A floweret filled with honey in a soft suburban dell, And I the bee go soaring around her bower adoring The beauty and the store of the Star of Sunday's Well.
This matron subsidises both Beamish's and Wise's, The viands that she prizes provide most comely fare, I wish I could administer a modicum of Guinness to her, For there is nothing sinister or medieval there. Her heart I would allure it but that a grocer's curate Is planning to secure it by artifices fell, I've given hints abundant to that obscure incumbent To flutter less redundant round the Star of Sunday's Well.
All through the summer weather, two lovers linked together, Patrolled Marina's heather or strolled along the Dyke; The blackbirds and the thrushes established in the bushes Their elegies in gushes propelled to Kerry Pike. I hear their jocund royster and sighed as for his cloister The quaint but fulsome oyster, like a hermit in his cell, I lacked reciprocation in this matron's cognition, For I got a harsh negation from the Star of Sunday's Well.Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
