Come a riddle, come a riddle, come a rot tot tot; A little Chartist Magistrate, named Stott Stott Stott, Who, when asked to pay his taxes, said plainly he would not; So to the Calton Jail they made him trot trot trot. Another bilk-the-taxman, with a rot tot tot, Thought he'd try the same sly dodge as Bailie Stott Stott Stott; His business wanted mending, as also did his coat, But his shoes would hardly stand a heavy trot trot trot. These worthy sons of Crispin, with a tot tot tot, Not wishing to be speedily forgot got got, A letter to the Magistrates they sat down and wrote, In which they plainly stated what was not not not. Come a riddle, come a riddle, come a rot tot tot, Would you like to know the reason of this plot plot plot? In the one 'twas want of brain, in the other want of shot, But in both a wish to seem what he was not not not. Come then, rally, sons of Crispin, to the spot spot spot, And table down the penny or your groat groat groat; For their conscience feels no racks if another pays the tax; By this you see they're cracks, with a rot tot tot.
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