1At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
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
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10one tongue will do to keep the verse agog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress
12One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
13poor reader smile before your lips go numb
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
← OPEN dataBase