1At five precisely out went La Marquise
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6signalling gauchos very rarely shave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10what things we did we went the whole darned hog
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
12We’ll suffocate before the epilogue
13poor reader smile before your lips go numb
14fried grilled black pudding’s still the world’s best yum
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