Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
They both are right not unformed smatterings
To break a rule Britannia's might might waive
Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
A bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum