Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
His toga rumpled high above his knees
While sharks to let's say potted shrimps are prone
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
The learning linguist cameramaniac sings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
What things we did we went the whole darned hog
On wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
And let you off from your opinions glum
Soliloquies predict great things old chum