Lights on the Liver.

Oh! I positively shiver
When I contemplate the liver,
And its manifold potentialities,
How the slightest imperfection
In its purpose or direction,
Makes its owner feel like Gorgonzola cheese,
Or a piece of protoplasm
Groping blindly in a chasm,
Populated in the main by chimpanzees.
Oh, it makes me fairly quiver
When I feel as if my liver
Were a sinker sunk beneath the ocean's
ooze,
Where the mudfish groan and grumble,
And the blind crustaceans mumble,
Something not unlike the prehistoric Blues,
Or the gurgle of a lizard
With a wish-bone in its gizzard—
Not the sort of song at all that one would
choose.
If you've ever owned a flivver,
You will understand the liver,
For they both are prone to stall without
excuse,
At the slightest provocation,
And without equivocation,
Cutting off the fickle flow of gas-trick juice,
Instigating revolutions
In the mildest constitutions—
What a world of woe a liver can produce.

‘Truly, dear reader, when the liver re-fuses the lights short-circuit.