He bent right down to pick up his valise
His exaltation shocked both youth and crone
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
For burning bushes never fish forgave
Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
What things we did we went the whole darned hog
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
Ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum