From playboy Chance the nymph no longer flees
When masons clutch the breath we held on loan
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
While sharks to let's say potted shrimps are prone
They both are right not untamed mutterings
With sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
In salads all chew grubs before they've wings
To break a rule Britannia's might might waive
When dried the terrapin can naught express
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
And let you off from your opinions glum
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum