1From playboy Chance the nymph no longer flees
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3he bent right down and well what did he seize
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8to break a rule Britannia’s might might waive
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
14the best of all things to an end must come
← OPEN dataBase