Drowning in another quart, Of that beastily tawny port, And other drinks of that sort, I still heard the Master's snort. You may recall how he did bray, After my crass, wanton display, Which left my crotch in disarray, Made, as it was, of papier mache. I tracked the Master to the Meet, Though my crotch is imcomplete, And his appeared to be replete, I would not yet concede defeat. I'm a huntsman strong and stout, 'Though troubled by God's gift of gout, I gave the Master a mighty clout, His jodphurs split, and what popped out? No more than a clay boy scout! What's that doing in your breeches? I cried over the Master's screeches, The shire now knows to the furthest reaches, He practices not what he preaches.