Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
Licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
Which neither time nor tide can long postpone
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
Signalling gauchos very rarely shave
Th'outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
The peasants's skirts on rainy days she'd tress
With gravity at gravity's great cog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
Ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
And lessors' dates have all too short a sum