1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3the understanding critic firstly sees
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10one tongue will do to keep the verse agog
11to prove mamma an adult with a tress
12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14a wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb
← OPEN dataBase