Chew, chew the bits ! 
The slime out slips 
From stinking pits. 
 
Her arsehole grips 
My prick :  my wits 
Are in eclipse 
When Celia shits. 
 
IX 
When Celia croaks I mean to play 
One of my funny little jokes, 
Ah !  Dust to dust and clay to clay 
When Celia croaks. 
 
I’ll dress her up in cloaks and toques 
Etcetera, earn her away 
And after sundry final pokes 
 
Hire her at three-and-six a day 
To G...H... — what a hoax ! 
“ None but the dead ” shall have its way 
When Celia croaks. 
 
X 
When Celia rots, each poxy hole 
Will serve :  she hath an hundred twats. 
Come finger, tongue, and fucking pole 
When Celia rots. 
 
Here, the old ulcers !  Happy spots ! 
Hail, pustules !  Hail, oh central goal 
Wherein some sucking devil squats 
 
Now surely as ever !  Broke the bowl. 
Loosed the old cord — yet hope unblots 
The record.  God may fuck her soul 
When Celia rots. 
 
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