The acid tongue with gourmet's expertise
The answer is they could be twins full-grown
His toga rumpled high above his knees
While sharks to let's say potted shrimps are prone
Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
Whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
They both are right not unformed smatterings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum