Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
When masons clutch the breath we held on loan
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
They both are right not untamed mutterings
Signalling gauchos very rarely shave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
To break a rule Britannia's might might waive
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
A piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
Watching manure and compost coalesce
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
Though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
They're kings we're mammal-cousins hi ho hum