1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7a daring baron pockets precious Mings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14the best of all things to an end must come
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