Classic Poem

Or yield or die's the word, what could he mean,
That tempted the corroborated scene?
Though frying-pans do bite their nails,
Let fritters pass in ancient heraldry,
And pudding boast its pedigree:
When toads do fight with bankrupt quails,
Green cheese in embryo and lockram shirts
Do poll for Knights o' the Shire,
All buttoned down the skirts,
And quibble votes for the intoxicated year.

The semicircular excursions ran
Forth to monopolise the three-legged can;
When Justice Lickspit kembed his head,
Triumphant hieroglyphic thrummed the law,
And spouting cataracts foresaw
That magazines on bulks lay dead.
The scouring eggshells all besmeared with blood,
Invelopèd in damned dry blows,
Detached the sudorific mud,
And brewed a pair of stiff mustachios.

It galled the winching brush to hear them say
That rigid southern hog-troughs danced the hay;
Though porringers themselves do beat,
And flyblown crow, on vane of weathercock,
Does threshing floors from hinges knock,
And squeamish bellows loathe their meat.
Yet grinning oaks still show their butter-teeth,
And fiery hogos from their sties
Do limping legacies bequeath,
And jest upon their blind forefathers' eyes.