1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4and empty cages show life’s bird has flown
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8the nicest kids for strickiest toffees crave
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10what things we did we went the whole darned hog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress
12One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14a wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb
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