Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
When masons clutch the breath we held on loan
The understanding critic firstly sees
And loudly sang off-key without a tone
How it suprised us pale grey underlings
When flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
A daring baron pockets precious Mings
Thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
The genealogist with field and fess
Shallots and sharks'fins face the smould'ring log
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
The Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum