1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2his nasal ecstasy beats best Cologne
3the understanding critic firstly sees
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone

5How it suprised us pale grey underlings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave

9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress

12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum