The Song Against Grocers

God made the wicked GrocerFor a mystery and a sign,That men might shun the awful shopsAnd go to inns to dine;Where the bacon's on the rafterAnd the wine is in the wood,And God that made good laughterHas seen that they are good.

The evil-hearted GrocerWould call his mother "Ma'am,"And bow at her and bob at her,Her aged soul to damn,And rub his horrid hands and askWhat article was nextThough MORTIS IN ARTICULOShould be her proper text.

His props are not his children,But pert lads underpaid,Who call out "Cash!" and bang aboutTo work his wicked trade;He keeps a lady in a cageMost cruelly all day,And makes her count and calls her "Miss"Until she fades away.

The righteous minds of innkeepersInduce them now and thenTo crack a bottle with a friendOr treat unmoneyed men,But who hath seen the GrocerTreat housemaids to his teasOr crack a bottle of fish sauceOr stand a man a cheese?

He sells us sands of ArabyAs sugar for cash down;He sweeps his shop and sells the dustThe purest salt in town,He crams with cans of poisoned meatPoor subjects of the King,And when they die by thousandsWhy, he laughs like anything.

The wicked Grocer grocesIn spirits and in wine,Not frankly and in fellowshipAs men in inns do dine;But packed with soap and sardinesAnd carried off by grooms,For to be snatched by DuchessesAnd drunk in dressing-rooms.

The hell-instructed GrocerHas a temple made of tin,And the ruin of good innkeepersIs loudly urged therein;But now the sands are running outFrom sugar of a sort,The Grocer trembles; for his time,Just like his weight, is short.