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
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
5How it suprised us pale grey underlings
6signalling gauchos very rarely shave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8to break a rule Britannia’s might might waive
9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13poor reader smile before your lips go numb
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
← OPEN dataBase