Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
Since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
A piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
A wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb