When one with t'other straightaway agrees
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
Old corned-beef's rusty armour spreads disease
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
A daring baron pockets precious Mings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
The peasants's skirts on rainy days she'd tress
And starve the sniveling baby like a dog
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
And let you off from your opinions glum
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum