1The acid tongue with gourmet’s expertise
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7th’outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
8Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11on wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
12But I can understand you Brogher Gog
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14fried grilled black pudding’s still the world’s best yum
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