1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2when masons clutch the breath we held on loan
3the understanding critic firstly sees
4with cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6the North Wind Bites into his architrave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12Bard I adore your endless monologue
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14the best of all things to an end must come
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