1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4with cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8the nicest kids for strickiest toffees crave
9Platonic Greece was not so talentless
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
12One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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