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
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
In salads all chew grubs before they've wings
For burning bushes never fish forgave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
The Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum