In a far corner of France
a particular branch of ancient Franks
prance a dance
along a river's banks
where they keep their camps
and many exotic plants.
Like ants electrified by amps
they break from a trance stance,
spank the shanks of their pants, and advance
as drunken aunts chants:
"Gdansk! Gdansk!
Lance the tail of the Manx!"
O the pranks
pranced
by these gallic cormorants
supplants any chance
to glance askance,
or blanch,
but grants a sense of romance
that does enhance,
and quite enchants.
So, let us not incant
this the rants of cranks,
but rather, murmur our thanks.

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