Now once upon a time the King of Astrakhan, at that,
Was sitting on his throne because his throne was where he sat;
And comfortably beside him, and magnificently stocked,
Was a lacquer liquor locker which a liquor lackey locked.

“My boy,” the King would often say with granulated voice,
“I think the 1640 is particularly choice.”
The boy would understand and so, endeavoring to please,
He’d try his luck at fitting several likely locker keys.

The King was always miuch annoyed because of this delay:
“See here, my lad, you’ve got to throw those other keys away.”
“This minute, Sire?” “This minute, sir!” And with a pox that pocked,
He cursed the keys which didn’t keep his liquor locker locked.

The lackey did as he was bid. Alackalasalack!
He threw them all so far away that no one threw them back.
A silly throw, as I can show, for he was simply shocked
To find he lacked the very one that left the liquor locked.

“O Sire, I’ve thrown them all away!” “Look here, my liquor lad!”
“It so befell I threw as well the one I wish I had.”
And since it was the kind of lock that isn’t quickly picked,
The lacquer liquid locker had the little lackey licked.

Unhappy page! In such a rage a king is hard to calm;
A butt or tun of ’51’s the proper kind of balm.
“I always liked my liquor locked, from brandy down to beer;
It might as well be lacquer now as liquor under here.”

Not magic of the magi nor the wisdom of the wise
Could either find the key again or ply where it applies.
The stricken King of Astrakhan soon sickened unto death,
Who tasted not of bitters but what most embittereth.

The little lackey lastly fell into a deep decline,
And evil over all the land to shrivel up the vine:
And now the only vintages of Astrakhan are crocked
In that lacquer liquor locker which a liquor lackey locked.

— David McCord