Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
For tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
He bent right down and well what did he seize
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
Filching the lolly country thrift helped save
Th'outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
Platonic Greece was not so talentless
A piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
Socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
And let you off from your opinions glum
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum