The acid tongue with gourmet's expertise
Licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
His toga rumpled high above his knees
And loudly sang off-key without a tone
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
An icicle of frozen marrow pings
For burning bushes never fish forgave
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
With quill white-collared through his life will jog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
But I can understand you Brogher Gog
Though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
They're kings we're mammal-cousins hi ho hum