He bent right down to pick up his valise
When masons clutch the breath we held on loan
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
Normal one aims to be and share the throne
They both are right not untamed mutterings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
The nicest kids for strickiest toffees crave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
With quill white-collared through his life will jog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
Bard I adore your endless monologue
Do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum