Christmas In The Good Old Days
ChatterBank2 mins ago
Jogger and her Gin bottle
79 Answers
Gin! Oh Gin! a Bottle of Gin!
What magnified AB circle there-in
Cussed and stained with trollish filth and mud,
Some plague-spotted, and some with blood!
Shapes of B00, Chuck, and Ed!
Figures that make us scared and tremble,
Mods that scarce human that more resemble
Broods of drunken kin,
Our JJ's been on the Gin!
Gin! Gin! a Bottle of Gin!
The dram of tinks! the liquor of Sin!—
Distill’d from the Shetland fell
Alembics of Sloopy Hell,
By Guilt and Death, her own brother and twin!
That Woman might fall
Flat out, lower than all
Drunk as a newt with scale and fin.
But hold—we are neither judges of sin
Who lash’d with such rage
Our drunken exploits of the age;
Then, instead of making too much of the din,
Let our raucous songs be mute,
And sweet NoMercy dilute,
With a drop of Pity for our JJ, the Bottle of Gin!
Gin! Gin! a Bottle of Gin!—
When Eds Adversity’s day’s set in,
And your AB friends and peers
Of earlier months and years
Prove warm without, but cold within,—
And we cannot retrace
a familiar shooty face
That’s steep’d in jokiness up to your chin
No snub, neglect, cold-shoulder, and cut
The ragged drunkard, misfortune’s butt,
Hardly acknowledg’d by AB kith and kin,
our beautifull JJ just needs a Gin
The brightest AB dreams,
And the best of bibble schemes,
All knocked down, like an Alba wicket by
waterboatman or is that Mynn,—
Each Mad Over 50s castle in air
Seized by Laby Alex despair,
No prospect in life worth a minikin pin,—
No credit—no Prudie cash,
No cold B00 cakes to hash,
No NoM wine to drink—not even ladybirder potatoes to mash;
No Bananas in the cellar, no Vodka in the binn,
No threads of folk nungated, broken to bits,
With Factor judgments and writs,
Bonds, bills, and cognovits distracting the wits,
In the webs that the shaney spiders of Chancery spin,—
Till weary of life, its worry and strife,
Black visions are rife of a razor, a knife,
Of ethanol—a rope—seadogg looping over a treble gin.
Gin! Gin! a Bottle of Gin!
Oh! then its tremendous temptations begin,
To take, JJ alas!
To the fatal glass,—
And happy the Gal that it does not win
While Angels sorrow, and Venator's Demons grin
And lose the aromatic icy
Chill of her Brighton attic
By plunging it into the Palace of Gin!
What magnified AB circle there-in
Cussed and stained with trollish filth and mud,
Some plague-spotted, and some with blood!
Shapes of B00, Chuck, and Ed!
Figures that make us scared and tremble,
Mods that scarce human that more resemble
Broods of drunken kin,
Our JJ's been on the Gin!
Gin! Gin! a Bottle of Gin!
The dram of tinks! the liquor of Sin!—
Distill’d from the Shetland fell
Alembics of Sloopy Hell,
By Guilt and Death, her own brother and twin!
That Woman might fall
Flat out, lower than all
Drunk as a newt with scale and fin.
But hold—we are neither judges of sin
Who lash’d with such rage
Our drunken exploits of the age;
Then, instead of making too much of the din,
Let our raucous songs be mute,
And sweet NoMercy dilute,
With a drop of Pity for our JJ, the Bottle of Gin!
Gin! Gin! a Bottle of Gin!—
When Eds Adversity’s day’s set in,
And your AB friends and peers
Of earlier months and years
Prove warm without, but cold within,—
And we cannot retrace
a familiar shooty face
That’s steep’d in jokiness up to your chin
No snub, neglect, cold-shoulder, and cut
The ragged drunkard, misfortune’s butt,
Hardly acknowledg’d by AB kith and kin,
our beautifull JJ just needs a Gin
The brightest AB dreams,
And the best of bibble schemes,
All knocked down, like an Alba wicket by
waterboatman or is that Mynn,—
Each Mad Over 50s castle in air
Seized by Laby Alex despair,
No prospect in life worth a minikin pin,—
No credit—no Prudie cash,
No cold B00 cakes to hash,
No NoM wine to drink—not even ladybirder potatoes to mash;
No Bananas in the cellar, no Vodka in the binn,
No threads of folk nungated, broken to bits,
With Factor judgments and writs,
Bonds, bills, and cognovits distracting the wits,
In the webs that the shaney spiders of Chancery spin,—
Till weary of life, its worry and strife,
Black visions are rife of a razor, a knife,
Of ethanol—a rope—seadogg looping over a treble gin.
Gin! Gin! a Bottle of Gin!
Oh! then its tremendous temptations begin,
To take, JJ alas!
To the fatal glass,—
And happy the Gal that it does not win
While Angels sorrow, and Venator's Demons grin
And lose the aromatic icy
Chill of her Brighton attic
By plunging it into the Palace of Gin!
Answers
Gin, Gin a Bottle of Gin
Where does Jayne end and Jogger Begin
On AB we love her,
Our own Brighton Belle
She must hide all the bottles
Or Olive will tell.
Where does Jayne end and Jogger Begin
On AB we love her,
Our own Brighton Belle
She must hide all the bottles
Or Olive will tell.
20:54 Mon 07th May 2012
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