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
5The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
6nought can the mouse’s timid nibbling stave
7th’outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11on wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
12But I can understand you Brogher Gog
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14fried grilled black pudding’s still the world’s best yum
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