Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
Since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
His toga rumpled high above his knees
That suede ferments is not at all well known
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
When flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
An icicle of frozen marrow pings
To break a rule Britannia's might might waive
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
A piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
Southern baroque's seductive dialogue
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
Soliloquies predict great things old chum