Pardon my lines, Ben Andrews, Pardon my way of speech. My range of old suitcases, My love of colourful braces, My fear of foreign places, And my hatred of the beach. Pardon my lines, Ben Andrews, Pardon my book of rules. My legs that scarcely bear my weight, Which well account for my ambling gait, My accent and my empty plate, My stolen transport tools. Pardon my lines, Ben Andrews, Pardon my lack of class. The scales that in my kitchen rust, The layers of unhampered dust, My crass Napoleonic bust, Which really is a farce. Pardon my lines, Ben Andrews, Pardon my way of speech. "All right," said Ben, "you're pardoned. Now who's round is it?" "Yours, I think."