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
4while sharks to let’s say potted shrimps are prone
5How it suprised us pale grey underlings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7a daring baron pockets precious Mings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11to prove mamma an adult with a tress
12But I can understand you Brogher Gog
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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