Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
When masons clutch the breath we held on loan
His toga rumpled high above his knees
And loudly sang off-key without a tone
How it suprised us pale grey underlings
With sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
A daring baron pockets precious Mings
Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
One tongue will do to keep the verse agog
Watching manure and compost coalesce
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
Do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum