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
4normal one aims to be and share the throne
5The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12Southern baroque’s seductive dialogue
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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