Who’s he what does as all most
sure would do
If blessed by a spine so gladly askew?
(Perchance we are blessed being not this one:
‘Twould flown be our will for a day’s work done!)
Who’s he that so
deftly contorts his tail
And glories to glimpse us the holey grail?
(Forbid it, Sir Knights, to ever be had –
Else e’er should our swords be scantily clad!)
Who’s he, in a “G.”
self-serving that slogs,
That we, self-perving, come slack-jawed agogs?
(By Jove, ‘tis a notable gift he’s got –
An eye for the lens in its perfect spot!)
Who’s he, ever generous
by the view,
That doles even more with his mighty spew?
A dear both desired and envied too,
Who flaunts (as he should) his fortunes – that’s who!