He said he'd talked to this chap Who wanted to get home to his mum. He'd said he'd been up half the night and spun him a yarn— But he said he stank of rum!
He said that he then tried To just brush this chap aside, But he wouldn't take the hint, so my friend— Just to get rid of him—lied!
How could a human begin To tell his fatigue in simple verse? And how could that same fellow list the drinks that he's had Or how they just made him worse?
O, how might it be said That a life should not be led In the vain pursuit of trying to ask How he might get to his bed?
Those in a violet mood
Get tired, find their bed and indigo.
Their liking for strong drink will leave them feeling quite blue,
But if they turn green: oh, no!
Yellowing through the night
Orangements both rough and trite,
In the morning they'll turn red at the thought
(If they got back home all white.)
Chaud-mi ze ouai tu gueue homme!
Âme tarre dandaille ou on ta gueue tabête.
Ayard dalitelle drine quaboutte anne ard agot
On dites ou hâine trai tu mayède.
Neau madère ou hair aïe rôme,
Eau verre lain d'or si or fôme,
Y-ou-il aulouaize ir mise cinguine zissongue:
Chaud-me ze ouai tu gueue homme!
Show me the way to go home.
Show me the way home because I'm beat.
I'm tired, so if you'd see me home then that'd be great.
Could you point me to my street?
I've asked you this before:
Will you show me to my door?
But I'll not ask you to show me again,
As you're about to, I'm sure.
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