1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4with cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
5How it suprised us pale grey underlings
6signalling gauchos very rarely shave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10a bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13the Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
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