1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3the understanding critic firstly sees
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11watching manure and compost coalesce
12One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14a wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb
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