When one with t'other straightaway agrees
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
His toga rumpled high above his knees
Which neither time nor tide can long postpone
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
In salads all chew grubs before they've wings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
With gravity at gravity's great cog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
But I can understand you Brogher Gog
Do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum