Classic Poem

Here a fat B — — p lies for worms choice food,
Who never did in life an act was good,
Was very rich, but always in a passion,
If any other b — p had translation .
Long he had flatter'd, jump'd o'er every stick,
At last was untranslated taken sick.
Who should he send for but that odd physician,
Who always told a patient his condition;
My lord, he cry'd, after he'd had his fee ,
There'll be no further business here for me;
I thank you, says my lord, you've wondrous skill,
And drive away diseases with your pill ,
Or if it should not the distemper stop,
We're safe when you administer your drop .
The doctor was a man of ready wit,
And told his lordship he was fairly bit.
That neither pill nor drop could him restore,
For in an hour or two he'd be no more .
But start not, good my lord, on this occasion,
You'll now have what you wanted — a translation .