1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3he bent right down and well what did he seize
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6signalling gauchos very rarely shave
7th’outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9The wolf devours both sheep and shepherdess
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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