1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3old corned-beef’s rusty armour spreads disease
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
5It’s one of many horrid happenings
6the North Wind Bites into his architrave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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