1The acid tongue with gourmet’s expertise
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3the understanding critic firstly sees
4that suede ferments is not at all well known
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8the nicest kids for strickiest toffees crave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10one tongue will do to keep the verse agog
11watching manure and compost coalesce
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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