Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
Old corned-beef's rusty armour spreads disease
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
Such merchandise a melancholy brings
For burning bushes never fish forgave
Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
And starve the sniveling baby like a dog
Socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
But I can understand you Brogher Gog
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum