1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2his exaltation shocked both youth and crone
3old corned-beef’s rusty armour spreads disease
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6rejecting ermine to become a knave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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