O Tongue, Sir, thou I salute with glee -
How canst I but marvel at thee? -
What gloriousness thy countenance betrays, -
This pinkish slab of muscle, that spotted uneven fray -
Thy cuteness magnified, those movements, that grace, -
With that speckled form, thy crowning one's face. -
O Tongue, Sir, this but an ode be -
Declareth I, how I worship thee! -
