1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
5How it suprised us pale grey underlings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8in purest cradels tha’s how they behave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
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