Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
Licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
Platonic Greece was not so talentless
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
The Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
And lessors' dates have all too short a sum