The acid tongue with gourmet's expertise
Licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
Old corned-beef's rusty armour spreads disease
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
For burning bushes never fish forgave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
With gravity at gravity's great cog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
But I can understand you Brogher Gog
Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
A wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb