Tapscott's Jug on the Table,
Drink Her Clean If You're Able

Back parlour of the Ship Aground, on Bideford quay, with the tide coming in,
the skittles go down through the wall with a clatter and din;
a fire of old keel-ends spits tar at the grate,
and the jug's on the table, and full, and she won't sit and wait.

Eight fingers are yours, for your thumbs hold the jug —
stop up her holes, then put lips to her mug.

Arrow keys spin her, or drag her about;
Q and E hunt the holes, and an S picks the spout;
keys one to eight set a finger down neat;
Space is a sip, and a T shows her feet;
click on a hole and a finger goes there;
L lifts the whole hand of them up in the air.

Who's had a go at her this season, set down plain as bread —
no rhyme and no reason, just WET or DRY, like I said.

    A penny a go, slapped flat on the board;
    drink clean and it's back, with a jug for reward;
    wet down your front, and you're buying the round;
    argue the toss, and you're out on the ground.
    Your linen shirt-front, laundered and pressed — see how it fares when the jug's done its best. Ale on the linen, it'll never come clean — the darkest brown tidemark the washtub has seen.