1The acid tongue with gourmet’s expertise
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3the understanding critic firstly sees
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6the North Wind Bites into his architrave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10with gravity at gravity’s great cog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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