Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
For tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
His toga rumpled high above his knees
Normal one aims to be and share the throne
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
A bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
The best of all things to an end must come