The acid tongue with gourmet's expertise
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
He bent right down and well what did he seize
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
The genealogist with field and fess
And starve the sniveling baby like a dog
Watching manure and compost coalesce
Southern baroque's seductive dialogue
Ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
They're kings we're mammal-cousins hi ho hum