1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4while sharks to let’s say potted shrimps are prone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6filching the lolly country thrift helped save
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8to break a rule Britannia’s might might waive
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
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