I imagine the scene where these lyrics were first written down as a cold, stormy night outside a window of a small dimly candlelit office that is decorated as if it came out of a Dickens novel with bookshelves and old rickety chairs. A balding old man in bifocals sitting at a small desk lit by a gas lamp using only a quill pen, repeatedly dipping it into the inkwell to capture each refrain of "beat my meat". He holds a handkerchief in one hand to catch the occasional cough and sniffle at each verse recorded.