Thou treachorous Bachi Bazoukes, girning Anacalouthes, peddlars of lies and false dawns. A curse on your flaccid cocks.

O Lord my God, that glib tongued Aitken,

Who's very heart and flesh are quaking,

To think how Brown sat, sweating, shaking,

And pissed wi dread,

While Gray wi hinging lip gaed sneaking,

And hid his head.