1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3the understanding critic firstly sees
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5O Parthenon you hold the charger’s strings
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8to break a rule Britannia’s might might waive
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10a bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
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