Ye woven cloth upon my head, Towel;
I cannot see; I look Middle-Eastern;
in my possession is a large dowel;
down this extremely dusty road I turn.
Camel convention? When will it adjourn?
Camels stomp by, now I'm soaking in spit.
This is disgusting; my stomache, it churns.
I spit back at them to show them my wit.
The camel jockey now thinks I'm a twit.
Within my tent, my wife's a fussbudget.
From my dinner, I give my dogs a bit;
they do not bite, but only just nudge it.
I have lost my identification.
My life is a horrible damnation.