1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5How it suprised us pale grey underlings
6whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10what things we did we went the whole darned hog
11to prove mamma an adult with a tress
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14in cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?
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