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

5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave

9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess

12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13on fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
14the bell tolls fee-less fi-less fo-less fum