Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
The answer is they could be twins full-grown
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
While sharks to let's say potted shrimps are prone
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
The learning linguist cameramaniac sings
The nicest kids for strickiest toffees crave
The peasants's skirts on rainy days she'd tress
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
They're kings we're mammal-cousins hi ho hum