Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
When masons clutch the breath we held on loan
The Turks said just take anything you please
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
He's gone to London how the echo rings
Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
Shallots and sharks'fins face the smould'ring log
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
And lessors' dates have all too short a sum