1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7a daring baron pockets precious Mings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11from cool Parnassus down to wild Loch Ness
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
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