He bent right down to pick up his valise
The answer is they could be twins full-grown
Old corned-beef's rusty armour spreads disease
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
Whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
He's gone to London how the echo rings
That every verbal shock aims to deprave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
With quill white-collared through his life will jog
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
Soliloquies predict great things old chum