Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
Licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
Nought can the mouse's timid nibbling stave
They both are right not unformed smatterings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
Staunch pilgrims longest journeys can't depress
With gravity at gravity's great cog
And played their mountain croquet jungle chess
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
The Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
The best of all things to an end must come