Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
And loudly sang off-key without a tone
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
The learning linguist cameramaniac sings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
And starve the sniveling baby like a dog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
The Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
The best of all things to an end must come