The acid tongue with gourmet's expertise
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
Old corned-beef's rusty armour spreads disease
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
Th'outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
Thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
With gravity at gravity's great cog
To prove mamma an adult with a tress
We'll suffocate before the epilogue
The Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum