1At five precisely out went La Marquise
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4while sharks to let’s say potted shrimps are prone
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
← OPEN dataBase