1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5O Parthenon you hold the charger’s strings
6nought can the mouse’s timid nibbling stave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13on fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
14they’re kings we’re mammal-cousins hi ho hum
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