1From playboy Chance the nymph no longer flees
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3old corned-beef’s rusty armour spreads disease
4and empty cages show life’s bird has flown
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6nought can the mouse’s timid nibbling stave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10a bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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