How pleasant to tipple with Quince,
Who ventures the odd rhyme or two
While pausing for breath between drince —
If there’s nothing better to dwo.

His face is the colour of pinot,
His handlebar whiskers outré;
He used to teach Plato and Zinot,
Now he mumbles in meter all dé.

He sits with his wine by the ocean
And thinks about wenches he’s known;
He walks with a bouncy mocean
And despises the portable phown.

His domicile’s Australasian,
His spirit is Irish or worse;
He gives in at once to temptasian,
And shamelessly lies in his vorse.

He mourns the passing of prayer
While claiming to be agnostic;
He offers up thanks for his hayer,
And sometimes he burns a jostic.

He can bash out a tune on the keys
In a rough imitation of Monk;
He’s ravished by sky and by treys,
But the ladies now need to be dronk.

He would dance, if he could, a pavane,
With somebody far from plebeian:
He flees the low woman or mane
Who swears with a truculent meian.

In dreams he sees hips and breasts
Emerging from ruby-red wine;
But he’s terribly genial to geasts,
And his motives are sometimes benine.