The marble tomb gapes wide with jangling keys
The answer is they could be twins full-grown
He bent right down and well what did he seize
Which neither time nor tide can long postpone
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
When flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
Such merchandise a melancholy brings
That every verbal shock aims to deprave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
On wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
Ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum