He bent right down to pick up his valise
Through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
And empty cages show life's bird has flown
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
When flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
In purest cradels tha's how they behave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
One tongue will do to keep the verse agog
From cool Parnassus down to wild Loch Ness
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
Soliloquies predict great things old chum