There once was a fellow named Mark
he did harbour a streak that was dark.
In his strawberry pie
he discovered a fly
but was glad that it wasn't a shark.
The above is all fine, also dandy
and one day when this fellow drank brandy
he got grease in his eye
from the pan used to fry
and he quickly called Handy Andy.
And this poet wrote many a poem,
takes a Shepherd-type expert to know 'em.
He got sick of his name
and commenced a new game,
as to names, he then started to grow 'em.
But he did have a sense of good humour
he had grown it with care, like a tumour.
When his fame reached a peak
he doled out his critique
but the bluntness is only a rumour.
Herbert Nehrlich
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mark-kingmountainfry/
