Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
Through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
While sharks to let's say potted shrimps are prone
Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
In purest cradels tha's how they behave
The peasants's skirts on rainy days she'd tress
Shallots and sharks'fins face the smould'ring log
Socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
Though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
Soliloquies predict great things old chum