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
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6rejecting ermine to become a knave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8in purest cradels tha’s how they behave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10with gravity at gravity’s great cog
11on wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
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