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
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown

5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7a daring baron pockets precious Mings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave

9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11on wheels the tourist follows hos hostess

12We’ll suffocate before the epilogue
13ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
14a wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb