From playboy Chance the nymph no longer flees
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
While sharks to let's say potted shrimps are prone
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
With sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
And starve the sniveling baby like a dog
From cool Parnassus down to wild Loch Ness
Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
Do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum