1The marble tomb gapes wide with jangling keys
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4that suede ferments is not at all well known
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8to break a rule Britannia’s might might waive
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11watching manure and compost coalesce
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13poor reader smile before your lips go numb
14they’re kings we’re mammal-cousins hi ho hum
← OPEN dataBase