1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5Old Galileo’s Pisan offerings
6rejecting ermine to become a knave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14soliloquies predict great things old chum
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