1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8to break a rule Britannia’s might might waive
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11watching manure and compost coalesce
12But I can understand you Brogher Gog
13do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
14fried grilled black pudding’s still the world’s best yum
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