1The acid tongue with gourmet’s expertise
2his nasal ecstasy beats best Cologne
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6the North Wind Bites into his architrave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
12One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14soliloquies predict great things old chum
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