The acid tongue with gourmet's expertise
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
It's one of many horrid happenings
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
And starve the sniveling baby like a dog
To prove mamma an adult with a tress
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
Ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
They're kings we're mammal-cousins hi ho hum