Kwaque, the Methusalem-faced ape grinnin' there, belongs to me.

But by my faith do I belong to beer, bottles 'n' bottles of it 'n' mountains of bottles of it enough to sink the ship.

Dog, truly I envy you, settin' there comfortable-like inside your body that's untainted of alcohol.

I may own you, and the man that gives me twenty quid will own you, but never will a mountain of bottles own you.

You're a freer man than I am, Mister Dog, though I don't know your name.