He bent right down to pick up his valise
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
In salads all chew grubs before they've wings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
With quill white-collared through his life will jog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
Bard I adore your endless monologue
The Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
In cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?