I am Sir Toby Belch, I say,
The drunk in Shakespeare's Twelfth Night play.
I stagger about.
I slur and I shout.
Would someone pass the chardonnay?

I'm like a sloth on sunny days,
But I drink ale, not sunny rays.
It slides down my throat
And spills on my coat,
But I don't care, so there it stays.

I wear a beard upon my face.
I eat and drink and take up space.
There's money I owe
And everyone knows,
But I still drain the human race.

I am Sir Toby Belch, it's true.
My kind of man is growing few.
So this is my task:
I really must ask
Is there, perhaps, some Belch in you?