He was an Old Peculier man,
That's what Mrs. Riordan said and she should know;
She swilled this ale with him.
So she was an Old Peculier woman.

Through his veins Old Peculier ran.
He sipped not on Rhône, blitzed. . .was a souse,
Bitburg eschewed, blitzed. . .blew his pelf,
This Old Peculier fan.

He went on bend-ers, and he smoked,
And got finger burns, so he stroked his chin,
And he said to his friend Lee, “Any pence to share?”
Then he hawked up some phlegm—
So gross! He was a nose-picker, this man.

He dined on fat and whey—
He’d turn on the gas and render a sheep,
Leave the milk exposed, which would bring the whey up,
Then he’d try it—hurl; after, find the room
Of Mrs. Riordan, say, “Let’s go and get drunk somewhere.
We can get Old, get tight, swoon.”

They went where people drench
Sorrow and puke in a trench.
From sopping up that Old Peculier brand.