At five precisely out went La Marquise
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
The Turks said just take anything you please
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
How it suprised us pale grey underlings
When flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
He's gone to London how the echo rings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
The peasants's skirts on rainy days she'd tress
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum