1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
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
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10with gravity at gravity’s great cog
11from cool Parnassus down to wild Loch Ness
12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
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