Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
For tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
He bent right down and well what did he seize
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
When flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
They both are right not unformed smatterings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
The genealogist with field and fess
And starve the sniveling baby like a dog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
But I can understand you Brogher Gog
Do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
The bell tolls fee-less fi-less fo-less fum