From playboy Chance the nymph no longer flees
The answer is they could be twins full-grown
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
And empty cages show life's bird has flown
It's one of many horrid happenings
With sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
In salads all chew grubs before they've wings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
With gravity at gravity's great cog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
Though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
They're kings we're mammal-cousins hi ho hum