Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
Which neither time nor tide can long postpone
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
To break a rule Britannia's might might waive
When dried the terrapin can naught express
One tongue will do to keep the verse agog
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
We'll suffocate before the epilogue
Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
In cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?