He has made many meals
On the Lib'rals of late,
And the way that he feels
May be judged by his state;
For the fact that he has indigestion
Is needless, almost, to relate.
In the Kingdom of wade
He has eaten with zest;
That is plainly displayed
By the girth of his vest
Now he's hungrily eyeing McGowen
And Dacey and some of the rest.
With repletion he's sighed
In the south cabbage plot,
For he's quite satisfied
With the feed he has got;
For the Libs, they were many and juicy,
And lo, he has gobbled the lot.
They have fed him on sops
In the far nortern State:
He is licking his chops,
He is feeling first-rate.
They have named him Phidkilp in that district,
Where he's dined rather largely of late.
There was quite a to-do
When he lunched in South Oss.
For he ate quite a few
Ere they noticed the loss.
But he finished his feed without winking
And is, by one mouthful, the boss.
He has chewed all the Libs.
On the old Apple Isle;
He has patted his ribs
With a satisfied smile;
And now he's quite fat and contented,
And likely rest for a while.
In the Federal crib
He has dines on 'em roast;
He's had hot devilled Lib.
And a Deakin on toast;
But he's feeling 'too full after eating,'
And languidly cheerful at most.
For this Liberal diet
Has filled him right out;
He has grown very quiet,
Exceedingly stout,
And he's taken a nap after dinner,
And has slept the session quite out.
Let us hope that, some day,
When he wakes in a huff,
The electors will say
He has had quite enough,
And prescribe him a Labor emetic,
And restrict him to plain Tory duff.
In the sweet soon-to-be,
When we open our NEWS,
Or our AGE or D.T.
Or whate'r we peruse,
We shall read: 'SUDDEN DEATH OF A GLUTTON,
THE FATE OF AN OVER-FED FUSE.'
