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
4while sharks to let’s say potted shrimps are prone
5They both are right not untamed mutterings
6whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
7th’outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10a bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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