I’ll write of a rock,
and some smock frock,
Resting on the thighs of her chest.
I’ll write of a coke,
Oh! Poured in some cold filthy strange boots,
Worn by fierceless war grunts.
I’ll write about a smock,
An heavy mukluk worn by drunkards,
The dark meat of every doberman.
I’ll write of a mock,
And a turtle soup sold to the immigrants,
Held in an holding cell of dead.