Just for Mrs Fogg in celebration of her curry love:

There’s a little cafe that they call the Gungha Din,
In a dark part of the city that’s renowned for vice and sin,
And all around the tables when the lights are growing dim
Walks the ghost of the Cafe Gungha Din.

He staggers round the tables with madness in his eyes,
Following the waiters. “Water, water!” is his cry,
But all the light-ale cavalry think he’s one of them,
As he walks in the Cafe Gungha Din.

They say he was a parson who came in drunk one night,
And that vicar, full of liquor, had his heart set all alight
When Fatima, the chef’s young daughter, he caught in his sight.
They fell in love in the Cafe Gungha Din.

Now, this Arthur curried favour with that girl called Fatima,
But that erotic cleric did not score with her papa.
When he caught them having a rogan josh, he thought they’d gone too far,
Behind the coats in the Cafe Gungha Din.

“You cassocked Casanova!” he said. His eyes were full of hate.
Then Fatima saw her papa had hands chock-full of plates.
She shouted out, in Bombay, “Duck!” but it was too late.
Now he’s the ghost of the Cafe Gungha Din.

“Oh, what’s my papa done?” she said. “That poor chappati’s dead,
‘Cos a flying bowl of mulligatawny’s cracked the back of his head!”
And he swallowed a gallon of vindaloo. That’s what the coroner said.
Now he’s the ghost of the Cafe Gungha Din.

So, if you go into that cafe that they call the Gungha Din,
Where the drunks fall asleep in their dinners, you might catch a glimpse of him.
He staggers round the tables with madness in his eyes.
His parson’s nose is all aglow. “Water!” is his cry,
And from out his Khyber Pass you can see the hot sparks fly.
He’s the ghost of the Cafe Gungha Din.