What crowded heart
So cold like the pit
red in loss and hard with memory
Away she said
and lightly tread
O'er summers better glory
Voices rich for lust
Remember paradise unstill
And bathe in times winter

"When the Thin Whyte Duke
And the Prince lay colde
When the fools stande talle
And the bigots bolde
The man of orange shall seize the throne
From the one they calle "The Clyntoone Crone"
Then men wille weepe and children waile
(The internete declare a "FAILE")
To no availe fore I have seene
The worlde will ende in twenty hundrede and sixteene!"

J.C.C., he's bigger than J.C.
Cos' he's got an extra C, see?
The best thing since B.C.
Since the wanna be man climbed down from the tree
He's a lyrical Bruce Lee
Cos' he's got chops
You see, not ALL poets are fops
Some of them are hound dogs
With poisonous bark
And some of them write tributes
To John. Cooper. Clarke