wake in the morning, the hold of the anchor the walk of the cunning, the hole in the ship it's easy to be firemen in a house made of brick spit the pus from your mouth, you bastards you ruin my dress when you talk given a sentence, laid on a plate shake hands and eat the shit the acquitted were hard wrung through a dripping cloth it's good sense, not superstition so heed that old hag when your mirror is broken it could be seven long years laugh like an empty can with a string seven times you wrap your craven tongue around a torch swine they wallow, the scuttle there, a paradise of muck hens they cackle, they love to talk, they love their sufferi