1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6the North Wind Bites into his architrave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave
9Staunch pilgrims longest journeys can’t depress
10one tongue will do to keep the verse agog
11on wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
12One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14fried grilled black pudding’s still the world’s best yum
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