1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone
5How it suprised us pale grey underlings
6rejecting ermine to become a knave
7a daring baron pockets precious Mings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
14the bell tolls fee-less fi-less fo-less fum
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