1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2his exaltation shocked both youth and crone
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14a wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb
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