The wearisome world
Our vicar I observed the other day
one morning, while as yet he lay
stretched out exhausted ’twixt two sheets.
His cheeks were rosy pink in hue,
his podgy arms well-marrowed too,
his massive belly hid from view
surged t’ward his chin’s full-larded pleats.
A table by his bed, where breakfast was laid out
stood ready for this man devout,
with butter and with chicken, such delicious food.
This did the reverend set about
and judged the sweet liqueur quite good.
After displaying zeal aright,
with swig on swig and bite on bite,
on his soft pillow did he sink back in despair
and cry out: “Mighty God, what is this life of clay?
A fight ’gainst vanity and sin’s foul snare.
Oh Lord, Thy strength grant me I pray
so wearisome a world to bear!”
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