Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
Licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
It's one of many horrid happenings
When flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
They both are right not unformed smatterings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
The genealogist with field and fess
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
To prove mamma an adult with a tress
Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
Though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
And lessors' dates have all too short a sum