Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
The answer is they could be twins full-grown
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
That suede ferments is not at all well known
It's one of many horrid happenings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
The wolf devours both sheep and shepherdess
A piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
On wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
Though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum