1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
5They both are right not untamed mutterings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8to break a rule Britannia’s might might waive
9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14the bell tolls fee-less fi-less fo-less fum
← OPEN dataBase