Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
For tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
While sharks to let's say potted shrimps are prone
They both are right not untamed mutterings
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
A daring baron pockets precious Mings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
With gravity at gravity's great cog
To prove mamma an adult with a tress
Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
The best of all things to an end must come