1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4with cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
5The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
6whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9Platonic Greece was not so talentless
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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