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

5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave

9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11on wheels the tourist follows hos hostess

12One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
13do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
14soliloquies predict great things old chum