The Case, Too, Was Urgent, For There Stood A Sinner, Whose Fate Hung On Chance--A Chance For His Dinner; A Chance For All Mortals, With Truth I Assert, Who Eat Where His Chance Was, To Counteract Fate, "To Eat During Life Each A Peck Of Pure Dirt" By Eating At Once The Whole Peck From One Plate. For True When I Think Of The Places We Eat At, Or Rather The Places By Hunger When Driven We Rush In And Swallow Our Bread And Our Meat At, A Bushel Good Measure In Life Will Be Given To Those Who Are Living A "Boarding-House Life," Or Those Who Are Driven By Fortune To Journey, And Eat When We Must With So Dirty A Knife, I Wish'T Could Be Done By The Power Of Attorney; Or Where You Must Eat In A Place Called "Saloon;" Or "Coffee-House" Synonym Of Whisky And Rum; (I Wish All The Breed Were Sent Off To The Moon, And Earth Was Well Clear Of The Coffee-House Scum;) Or Where "Restauration" Hangs Out For Sign, At Bar-Room Or Cellar Or Dirty Back Room, Where Dishcloths For Napkins Are Thought Extra Fine, And Table Cloths Look As Though Washed With A Broom; Where Knives Waiters Spit On And Wipe On Their Sleeves, And Plates Needing Polish, With Coat Tails Are Cleaned; Where Priests Dine With Harlots, And Judges With Thieves, And Mayors With Villains His Worship Has Screened.