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
4and empty cages show life’s bird has flown
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11on wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14the bell tolls fee-less fi-less fo-less fum
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