Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
For tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
The Turks said just take anything you please
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
With sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
They both are right not unformed smatterings
To break a rule Britannia's might might waive
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
One tongue will do to keep the verse agog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
We'll suffocate before the epilogue
Do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
And lessors' dates have all too short a sum