1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2his nasal ecstasy beats best Cologne
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8the nicest kids for strickiest toffees crave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13on fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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