1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2when masons clutch the breath we held on loan
3old corned-beef’s rusty armour spreads disease
4that suede ferments is not at all well known
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11watching manure and compost coalesce
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
← OPEN dataBase