1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2his nasal ecstasy beats best Cologne
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone
5The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
12We’ll suffocate before the epilogue
13poor reader smile before your lips go numb
14a wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb
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