As a little fat man of Bombay
Was smoking one very hot day,
   A bird called a Snipe,
   Flew away with his pipe,
Which vex'd the fat man of Bombay.

A merry old man of Oporto,
Had long had the gout in his fore toe;
   And oft when he spoke
   To relate a good joke,
A terrible twinge cut it short O!

Said a very proud Farmer at Rye-gate,
When the Squire rode up to his high gate,
   With your horse and your hound,
   You had better go round,
For, I say, you shan't jump over my gate.