1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone
5O Parthenon you hold the charger’s strings
6nought can the mouse’s timid nibbling stave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10a bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress
12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13the Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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