Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
With sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
A daring baron pockets precious Mings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
And starve the sniveling baby like a dog
Watching manure and compost coalesce
Bard I adore your endless monologue
On fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
The bell tolls fee-less fi-less fo-less fum