There stands by Cam Bridge, newely built, a Temple of the Grail
That St. Clair pleyed the Martir to, yelept the Yard of Ale.
The hosteler, goode Robert Loud, serves up the lustie draughts:
"No longer myght these premyses be called a poor monne's Schraught's.
Where once balled ladies sat and swabbed their lewdlie wandering eyne,
We now projecteth privilie to tasties masculine."
And by the Sandwiche Barre there stond Christiens of every station
A hyden String Band sawes aweye, pleying "Fascination."
The youths behind the loaded barre be alle bedecked with bibbes,
A manlie fashion introduced on Alberte Finnie's ribs.
The antient payntings all yronde, of rustics at the tillage
Were paynted by some Vassar grad, down in Greenwiche Village.
The Kitchen's like a mummer's show of menne from far countree;
The helpers all are Nubien, the sheffe's from Ytallee
A buxom waytress greets the guest, with complyments to God:
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"Softshoe and Cigars"
