This apparently artless oratory was beginning to have its effect.
Loud huzzas filled the hall. These touching words had evoked
wistful memories hidden deep in every heart. Old wounds were
reopened and bled afresh.

Again Quimbleton had to call for silence.

"I will recite to you," he said, "a ditty that I have composed
myself. It is called A Chanty of Departed Spirits."

In a voice tremulous with emotion he began:

The earth is grown puny and pallid,
The earth is grown gouty and gray,
For whiskey no longer is valid
And wine has been voted away--
As for beer, we no longer will swill it
In riotous rollicking spree;
The little hot dogs in the skillet
Will have to be sluiced down with tea.

O ales that were creamy like lather!
O beers that were foamy like suds!
O fizz that I loved like a father!
O fie on the drinks that are duds!
I sat by the doors that were slatted
And the stuff had a surf like the sea--
No vintage was anywhere vatted
Too strong for ventripotent me!