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
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
5They both are right not untamed mutterings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14they’re kings we’re mammal-cousins hi ho hum
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