Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
Licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
That suede ferments is not at all well known
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
Such merchandise a melancholy brings
Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
A bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
To prove mamma an adult with a tress
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum