1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2the answer is they could be twins full-grown
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4while sharks to let’s say potted shrimps are prone
5The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
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
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14fried grilled black pudding’s still the world’s best yum
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