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
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12Bard I adore your endless monologue
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
← OPEN dataBase