1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2his nasal ecstasy beats best Cologne
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4and empty cages show life’s bird has flown
5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11on wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
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