From playboy Chance the nymph no longer flees
His exaltation shocked both youth and crone
The understanding critic firstly sees
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
Whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
Shallots and sharks'fins face the smould'ring log
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum