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Poem	The harridan who holds the inn At which I toss a pot, Is old and uglier than sin,-- I'm glad she knows me not. Indeed, for me it's hard to think, Although my pow's like snow, She was the lass so fresh and pink I courted long ago. I wronged her, yet it's sadly true She wanted to be wronged: They mostly do, although 'tis you, The male bloke who is thonged. Well, anyway I left her then To sail across the sea, And no doubt she had other men, And soon lost sight of me. So now she is a paunchy dame And mistress of the inn, With temper tart and tounge to blame, Moustache and triple chin. And though I have no proper home Contentedly I purr, And from my whiskers wipe the foam, --Glad I did not wed her. Yet it's so funny sitting here To stare into her face; And as I raise my mug of beer I dream of our disgrace. And so I come and come each day To more and more enjoy The joke--that fifty years away I was her honey boy.
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