1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6the North Wind Bites into his architrave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8to break a rule Britannia’s might might waive
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11to prove mamma an adult with a tress
12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
← OPEN dataBase