Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
And empty cages show life's bird has flown
It's one of many horrid happenings
Whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
Thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
With quill white-collared through his life will jog
On wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum