1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
3he bent right down and well what did he seize
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
5The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
9Staunch pilgrims longest journeys can’t depress
10one tongue will do to keep the verse agog
11to prove mamma an adult with a tress
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13poor reader smile before your lips go numb
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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