1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2when masons clutch the breath we held on loan
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4with cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10what things we did we went the whole darned hog
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
14soliloquies predict great things old chum
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