Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
His exaltation shocked both youth and crone
The Turks said just take anything you please
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
With sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
The nicest kids for strickiest toffees crave
The genealogist with field and fess
What things we did we went the whole darned hog
Watching manure and compost coalesce
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
The Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum