Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
His nasal ecstasy beats best Cologne
He bent right down and well what did he seize
While sharks to let's say potted shrimps are prone
It's one of many horrid happenings
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
He's gone to London how the echo rings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
And played their mountain croquet jungle chess
But I can understand you Brogher Gog
On fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
A wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb