1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11from cool Parnassus down to wild Loch Ness
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13poor reader smile before your lips go numb
14the bell tolls fee-less fi-less fo-less fum
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