1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
3old corned-beef’s rusty armour spreads disease
4that suede ferments is not at all well known
5They both are right not untamed mutterings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress
12We’ll suffocate before the epilogue
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14in cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?
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