Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
When masons clutch the breath we held on loan
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
They both are right not unformed smatterings
In purest cradels tha's how they behave
Platonic Greece was not so talentless
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
Watching manure and compost coalesce
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
A wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb