1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
3old corned-beef’s rusty armour spreads disease
4while sharks to let’s say potted shrimps are prone
5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11watching manure and compost coalesce
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
← OPEN dataBase