I cannot write, I cannot think
I only eat and sleep and drink.—
They say I was an author once
I know I am a happy dunce
Who snores along the deck and waits
To catch the rattle of the plates,
Who drowns ambition in a sea
Of Lager or of Tivoli
I cannot write, I cannot sing—
I long to hear the meal–bell ring—
I cannot sing—I cannot write
I am a Walking Appetite.
But you insist and I obey.
In steamer Madura
Now rolling through a tepid sea
To Mrs Hill
A journalist unkempt and inky
With all regards, WEE WILLIE WINKIE.