1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4that suede ferments is not at all well known
5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11from cool Parnassus down to wild Loch Ness
12We’ll suffocate before the epilogue
13ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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