1The acid tongue with gourmet’s expertise
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3the understanding critic firstly sees
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8in purest cradels tha’s how they behave
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11to prove mamma an adult with a tress
12But I can understand you Brogher Gog
13on fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
14the best of all things to an end must come
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