1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2when masons clutch the breath we held on loan
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5They both are right not untamed mutterings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8in purest cradels tha’s how they behave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
14soliloquies predict great things old chum
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