Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
Licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
And loudly sang off-key without a tone
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
Filching the lolly country thrift helped save
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
That every verbal shock aims to deprave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
A bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
And played their mountain croquet jungle chess
Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
And let you off from your opinions glum
Soliloquies predict great things old chum