Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
For tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
The understanding critic firstly sees
And empty cages show life's bird has flown
Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
For burning bushes never fish forgave
Staunch pilgrims longest journeys can't depress
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
On wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
A wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb