Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
Since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
O Parthenon you hold the charger's strings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
They both are right not unformed smatterings
The nicest kids for strickiest toffees crave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
A bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
Socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
And let you off from your opinions glum
In cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?