1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3he bent right down and well what did he seize
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone

5The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
6signalling gauchos very rarely shave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave

9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes

12Bard I adore your endless monologue
13do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum