Righteous Anger

HE lanky hank of a she in the inn over there  Nearly killed me for asking the loan of a glass of beer:  May the devil grip the whey-faced slut by the hair,  And beat bad manners out of her skin for a year.    That parboiled imp, with the hardest jaw you will see          On virtue’s path, and a voice that would rasp the dead,  Came roaring and raging the minute she looked on me,  And threw me out of the house on the back of my head!    If I asked her master he’d give me a cask a day;  But she, with the beer at hand, not a gill would arrange!          May she marry a ghost and bear him a kitten, and may  The High King of Glory permit her to get the mange.