1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3he bent right down and well what did he seize
4with cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
5How it suprised us pale grey underlings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8to break a rule Britannia’s might might waive
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10one tongue will do to keep the verse agog
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
12But I can understand you Brogher Gog
13the Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
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