1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2the answer is they could be twins full-grown
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14the best of all things to an end must come
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