Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
When masons clutch the breath we held on loan
He bent right down and well what did he seize
While sharks to let's say potted shrimps are prone
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
They both are right not unformed smatterings
In purest cradels tha's how they behave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
A piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
On wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
Though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum