Old Tom

The harridan who holds the inn
     At which I toss a pot,
Is old and uglier than sin,—
     I'm glad she knows me not.
Indeed, for me it's hard to think,
     Although my pow's like snow,
She was the lass so fresh and pink
     I courted long ago.
     
I wronged her, yet it's sadly true
     She wanted to be wronged:
They mostly do, although 'tis you,
     The male bloke who is thonged.
Well, anyway I left her then
     To sail across the sea,
And no doubt she had other men,
     And soon lost sight of me.

So now she is a paunchy dame
     And mistress of the inn,
With temper tart and tounge to blame,
     Moustache and triple chin.
And though I have no proper home
     Contentedly I purr,
And from my whiskers wipe the foam,
     —Glad I did not wed her.

Yet it's so funny sitting here
     To stare into her face;
And as I raise my mug of beer
     I dream of our disgrace.
And so I come and come each day
     To more and more enjoy
The joke—that fifty years away
     I was her honey boy.