Classic Poem

Oh that my lungs could bleat like butter'd pease;
But bleating of my lungs hath caught the itch,
And are as mangy as the Irish Seas,
That doth ingender windmills on a bitch.

I grant that rainbows, being lull'd asleep,
Snort like a woodknife in a lady's eyes;
Which makes her grieve to see a pudding creep,
For creeping puddings only please the wise.

Not that a hard roed herring should presume
To swing a tithe pig in a catskin purse;
For fear the hailstones which did fall at Rome,
By less'ning of the fault should make it worse.

For 'tis most certain winter woolsacks grow
From geese to swans, if men should keep them so,
Till that the sheep shorn planets gave the hint,
To pickle pancakes in Geneva print.

Some men there were that did suppose the sky
Was made of carbonado'd antidotes;
But my opinion is, a whale's left eye
Need not be coined all King Harry groats.

The reason's plain, for Charon's western barge
Running a tilt at the subjunctive mood,
Beckoned to Bednal Green, and give him charge
To fasten padlocks with antarctic food.

The end will be the millponds must be laded,
To fish for white-pots in a country dance;
So they that suffered wrong and were upbraided
Shall be made friends in a left handed trance.