The marble tomb gapes wide with jangling keys
His nasal ecstasy beats best Cologne
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
While sharks to let's say potted shrimps are prone
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
Such merchandise a melancholy brings
To break a rule Britannia's might might waive
When dried the terrapin can naught express
With quill white-collared through his life will jog
On wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
And let you off from your opinions glum
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum