Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
Licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
The understanding critic firstly sees
That sueade ferments is not at all well known
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
When flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
An icicle of frozen marrow pings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
Staunch pilgrims longest journeys can't depress
One tongue will do to keep the verse agog
Watching manure and compost coalesce
Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
And let you off from your opinions glum
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum