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!