Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
His nasal ecstasy beats best Cologne
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
While sharks to let's say potted shrimps are prone
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
The nicest kids for strickiest toffees crave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
A bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
To prove mamma an adult with a tress
Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
Ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
Soliloquies predict great things old chum