Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
An icicle of frozen marrow pings
Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
The peasants's skirts on rainy days she'd tress
What things we did we went the whole darned hog
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
And let you off from your opinions glum
They're kings we're mammal-cousins hi ho hum