Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
The answer is they could be twins full-grown
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
Nought can the mouse's timid nibbling stave
The learning linguist cameramaniac sings
That every verbal shock aims to deprave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
But I can understand you Brogher Gog
And let you off from your opinions glum
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum