The acid tongue with gourmet's expertise
When masons clutch the breath we held on loan
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
The wolf devours both sheep and shepherdess
One tongue will do to keep the verse agog
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
On fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum