1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone
5The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10a bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
11watching manure and compost coalesce
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14the bell tolls fee-less fi-less fo-less fum
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