Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
It's one of many horrid happenings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
He's gone to London how the echo rings
Thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
And starve the sniveling baby like a dog
And played their mountain croquet jungle chess
Southern baroque's seductive dialogue
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum