Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
A daring baron pockets precious Mings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
One tongue will do to keep the verse agog
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
Do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum