The acid tongue with gourmet's expertise
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
That suede ferments is not at all well known
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
In salads all chew grubs before they've wings
Thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
Do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
A wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb