Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
His nasal ecstasy beats best Cologne
His toga rumpled high above his knees
And loudly sang off-key without a tone
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
A daring baron pockets precious Mings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
And played their mountain croquet jungle chess
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum