To our precinct reeled along on the holy
Pitcher day.
Brekekekex, ko-ax, ko-ax.

DIO. O, dear! O dear! now I declare I've got a bump upon my rump.

FR. Brekekekex, ko-ax, ko-ax.

DIO. But you, perchance, don't care.

FR. Brekekekex, ko-ax, ko-ax.

DIO. Hang you, and your ko-axing too! There's nothing but ko-ax with
you.

FR. That is right, Mr. Busybody, right!
For the Muses of the lyre love us well;
And hornfoot Pan who plays on the pipe his jocund lays;
And Apollo, Harper bright, in our Chorus takes delight
For the strong reed's sake which I grow within my lake
To be girdled in his lyre's deep shell.
Brekekekex, ko-ax, ko-ax.

DIO.

My hands are blistered very sore;
My stern below is sweltering so,
'Twill soon, I know, upturn and roar
Brekekekex, ko-ax, ko-ax.
O tuneful race, O pray give o'er,