1The acid tongue with gourmet’s expertise
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6signalling gauchos very rarely shave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8to break a rule Britannia’s might might waive
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11from cool Parnassus down to wild Loch Ness
12But I can understand you Brogher Gog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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