At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
Normal one aims to be and share the throne
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
With sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
Such merchandise a melancholy brings
For burning bushes never fish forgave
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
One tongue will do to keep the verse agog
On wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
We'll suffocate before the epilogue
Though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum