1The acid tongue with gourmet’s expertise
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3he bent right down and well what did he seize
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone
5The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7the learning linguist cameramaniac sings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13poor reader smile before your lips go numb
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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