Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
Through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
His toga rumpled high above his knees
And empty cages show life's bird has flown
It's one of many horrid happenings
When flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
And lessors' dates have all too short a sum