When one with t'other straightaway agrees
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
On wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
In cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?