The shillings sing a song

Shingalingaling.
The shillings sing a song.
A lucky day for the boggled beggar sitted by the bay.
Big wide grin.

Zehahahaha
Zipping through a throng.
A lucky day for a seasoned swindler counting in a lane.
Big wide grin.

Pussy cat steps. Pussy cat steps.

Swipe swipe swipe. Swipe swipe swipe.

Shingalingaling!
The shillings sing a song.
A lucky day for the thief who cleaned the beggar by the bay.
Big wide grin!

Zehahahaha!
Zipping through a throng.
A lucky day for the thief who swiped the swindler in the lane!
Big wide grin.

Stomp stomp stomp! Stomp stomp stomp!

Bang Bang Bang! Bang Bang Bang!

Shingalingaling.
Bullets sing a song.
Unlucky day for the thief – lifeless wealthless laid to waste
… …

Zehahahaha!
Bigger wider grin.
A lucky day the mugging thug who gave the thief decay
… …

Shingalingaling.
The shillings sing a song.

Brussel Sprouts

For I have felt the joy of oak-brown toast
And caught the glint of honey in an eye
And swam with sardines by the ivory coast
Where shrimps and lobsters in their pot did lie
With salt and thyme the appetite to slake.
The reams of menu paper for to read
In dusky joints where yeasty bread was brake
By pasty facéd butlers gone to seed.
Tis much that I have known. And soared with kites
To Olympus where heavn'ly nectar flows
Ta'en gulps of bliss from divine spring, and bites
Of apples which in cloud-top gardens grow.
I've had my share of all the sensual rout
But stay all pure, and love thee, Brussel Sprout.