1The acid tongue with gourmet’s expertise
2when masons clutch the breath we held on loan
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4while sharks to let’s say potted shrimps are prone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11to prove mamma an adult with a tress
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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