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
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6rejecting ermine to become a knave
7a daring baron pockets precious Mings
8in purest cradels tha’s how they behave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10one tongue will do to keep the verse agog
11from cool Parnassus down to wild Loch Ness
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13poor reader smile before your lips go numb
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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