The acid tongue with gourmet's expertise
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
And empty cages show life's bird has flown
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
With sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
That every verbal shock aims to deprave
The genealogist with field and fess
A piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
A wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb