1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2the answer is they could be twins full-grown
3the understanding critic firstly sees
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11watching manure and compost coalesce
12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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