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
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
5The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
6rejecting ermine to become a knave
7th’outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
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