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
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6filching the lolly country thrift helped save
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11to prove mamma an adult with a tress
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14the bell tolls fee-less fi-less fo-less fum
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