NARRATOR: DIRGE FOR THE PLATEWARE, DIRGE FOR THE BOWL
DIRGE FOR THE LI'L CUP SIP'PIN' AT MY SOUL
In this festive time of year
where foods are almost "made" of cheer
where savories compete with sweets
in rows of perfect foods, complete.
Where every morsel, every bite,
rings out like laughter in the night...
There's one small serving-cup of hell
that dampens down the joyous bells.
A cup of distilled, sweetened bog,
of fog-nay, smog-or mildewed log,
reduced, perhaps from boiled-up hog
twice-whisked with wet hairs from a dog.
Ah! I see you know this grog?
This flogging clog of eggs 'n slog?
well then let's skip the long prologue:
I speak, of course, of ol' EGGNOG.
ARTHUR (disgusted, drinking, eyes bulging , holding cup, mouth open, sitting, tongue sticking out): ...It looks and tastes like a babboon's left cheek FLACO (eyes wide, lying on ground, passed out)