While Robin is dispensing religious poetry incomprehensible (even with
translation) to anyone but a Scottish football fan, I present a
delightful easy-peasy passage of nonsense poetry, ending with my
favourite line.
Himself among the story'd chiefs he spies,
As from the blanket high in air he flies,
And oh! (he cry'd) what street, what lane but knows,
Our purgings, pumpings, blankettings, and blows?
In ev'ry loom our labours shall be seen,
And the fresh vomit run for ever green!
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