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
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7a daring baron pockets precious Mings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10with gravity at gravity’s great cog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
12Southern baroque’s seductive dialogue
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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