The acid tongue with gourmet's expertise
His exaltation shocked both youth and crone
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
The nicest kids for strickiest toffees crave
The peasants's skirts on rainy days she'd tress
What things we did we went the whole darned hog
Watching manure and compost coalesce
But I can understand you Brogher Gog
The Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum