1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone

5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave

9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10with gravity at gravity’s great cog
11from cool Parnassus down to wild Loch Ness

12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14a wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb