The acid tongue with gourmet's expertise
Licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
He bent right down and well what did he seize
And loudly sang off-key without a tone
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
He's gone to London how the echo rings
In purest cradels tha's how they behave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
And starve the sniveling baby like a dog
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
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