1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4that suede ferments is not at all well known
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7th’outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
8in purest cradels tha’s how they behave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13the Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
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