Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
For tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
Old corned-beef's rusty armour spreads disease
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
An icicle of frozen marrow pings
Thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
What things we did we went the whole darned hog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
But I can understand you Brogher Gog
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
A wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb