The acid tongue with gourmet's expertise
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
And loudly sang off-key without a tone
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
When flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
They both are right not unformed smatterings
Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
Southern baroque's seductive dialogue
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum