1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2the answer is they could be twins full-grown
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8the nicest kids for strickiest toffees crave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
14a wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb
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