1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4and empty cages show life’s bird has flown
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8to break a rule Britannia’s might might waive
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10a bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12But I can understand you Brogher Gog
13poor reader smile before your lips go numb
14fried grilled black pudding’s still the world’s best yum
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