1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4that suede ferments is not at all well known
5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6signalling gauchos very rarely shave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11watching manure and compost coalesce
12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13poor reader smile before your lips go numb
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
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