Classic Poem

There's a thing in the East, that inhabits the South,
Which swallows the ocean, without throat or a mouth.
It's made up of opium, with lungs from the moon,
And never can speak, without aid of a spoon.
The doctors are drunk when they think to define
The properties various twixt me and the vine.
Howsoever this ease to their stomachs I give;
I die to relieve them; they die whilst I live.
You know all the secrets that are hid in the town,
And legerdemain will show for a crown;
Why then two shillings more, I'll give you my leech
If this you unriddle in writing or speech.