Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
Through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
Signalling gauchos very rarely shave
He's gone to London how the echo rings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
Staunch pilgrims longest journeys can't depress
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
To prove mamma an adult with a tress
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
On fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
The best of all things to an end must come