He bent right down to pick up his valise
Licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
While sharks to let's say potted shrimps are prone
Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
Nought can the mouse's timid nibbling stave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
To break a rule Britannia's might might waive
When dried the terrapin can naught express
A piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
The bell tolls fee-less fi-less fo-less fum