Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
Since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
The Turks said just take anything you please
And loudly sang off-key without a tone
How it suprised us pale grey underlings
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
In purest cradels tha's how they behave
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
With quill white-collared through his life will jog
And played their mountain croquet jungle chess
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum