The Mariner shuts up at last;
His eye is bleak and rheumy;
His senile stance, his countenance
Impenetrably gloomy.
The wedding-guest is sorely pressed,
And irked by pointless chatter.
‘Look here, old chap, this rambling crap
Won’t fill a single platter.
I’m making lunch for quite a bunch;
The guests are getting stroppy.
I’ve heard your story, sometimes gory,
Sometimes rather soppy;
Your tale was fun, but I must run -
The cooks are at a loss.
I’m needed there to help prepare
The roasted Albatross.’
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