Move along now, hoi polloi,
there’s nothing to be seen:
the poet is composing
an Ode to Ballantine’s.
Move along, unlettered throng,
let the poet pen his song,
while you hustle with your bustle ordinaire.
Move along now, teeming masses,
rabble of the working classes,
and allow the poet to create his ode.
With your dull concerns and common cares,
you’ll never understand
why the poet has to sleep all day
with a bottle in his hand.