Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
Licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
How it suprised us pale grey underlings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
They both are right not unformed smatterings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
Watching manure and compost coalesce
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
A wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb