The acid tongue with gourmet's expertise
The answer is they could be twins full-grown
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
Whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
That every verbal shock aims to deprave
The peasants's skirts on rainy days she'd tress
A piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
Bard I adore your endless monologue
And let you off from your opinions glum
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum