1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2when masons clutch the breath we held on loan
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4that suede ferments is not at all well known
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13poor reader smile before your lips go numb
14fried grilled black pudding’s still the world’s best yum
← OPEN dataBase