1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
5It’s one of many horrid happenings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7a daring baron pockets precious Mings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10one tongue will do to keep the verse agog
11socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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