1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6signalling gauchos very rarely shave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave
9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13poor reader smile before your lips go numb
14fried grilled black pudding’s still the world’s best yum
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