Régime de Vivre
I rise at eleven, I dine about two, I get drunk before seven; and the next thing I do, I send for my whore, when for fear of a clap, I spend in her hand, and I spew in her lap. Then we quarrel and scold, 'till I fall fast asleep, When the bitch, growing bold, to my pocket does creep; Then slyly she leaves me, and, to revenge the affront, At once she bereaves me of money and cunt. If by chance then I wake, hot-headed and drunk, What a coil do I make for the loss of my punk! I storm and I roar, and I fall in a rage, And missing my whore, I bugger my page. Then, crop-sick all morning, I rail at my men, And in bed I lie yawning 'till eleven again.