From playboy Chance the nymph no longer flees
Licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
While sharks to let's say potted shrimps are prone
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
With sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
Such merchandise a melancholy brings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
The peasants's skirts on rainy days she'd tress
With gravity at gravity's great cog
To prove mamma an adult with a tress
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
Soliloquies predict great things old chum