Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
Since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
Old corned-beef's rusty armour spreads disease
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
Shallots and sharks'fins face the smould'ring log
From cool Parnassus down to wild Loch Ness
Bard I adore your endless monologue
The Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
The best of all things to an end must come