He bent right down to pick up his valise
The answer is they could be twins full-grown
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
When flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
Such merchandise a melancholy brings
To break a rule Britannia's might might waive
The genealogist with field and fess
With quill white-collared through his life will jog
To prove mamma an adult with a tress
Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum