He bent right down to pick up his valise
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
They both are right not unformed smatterings
That every verbal shock aims to deprave
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
And starve the sniveling baby like a dog
To prove mamma an adult with a tress
Bard I adore your endless monologue
Do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum