1When one with t’other straightaway agrees
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
5The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
6whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
12Southern baroque’s seductive dialogue
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14the best of all things to an end must come
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