He waved his hand--a vapour came--
A wizard POLTER reckoned him;
A bogy rose and called his name,
And with his finger beckoned him.

The monster's salient points to sum,--
His heavy breath was portery:
His glowing nose suggested rum:
His eyes were gin-and-WORtery.

His dress was torn--for dregs of ale
And slops of gin had rusted it;
His pimpled face was wan and pale,
Where filth had not encrusted it.

"Come, POLTER," said the fiend, "begin,
And keep the bowl a-flowing on--
A working man needs pints of gin
To keep his clockwork going on."

BOB shuddered: "Ah, you've made a miss
If you take me for one of you:
You filthy beast, get out of this--
BOB POLTER don't wan't none of you."

The demon gave a drunken shriek,
And crept away in stealthiness,
And lo! instead, a person sleek,
Who seemed to burst with healthiness.