/0/11523/coverbig.jpg?v=3223498ae70b9d51f13cb8d9edb39701)
45

/ 1

My landlord is civil,
But dear as the d-l:
Your pockets grow empty
With nothing to tempt ye;
The wine is so sour,
'Twill give you a scour,
The beer and the ale
Are mingled with stale.
The veal is such carrion,
A dog would be weary on.
All this I have felt,
For I live on a smelt.