Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
While sharks to let's say potted shrimps are prone
It's one of many horrid happenings
Nought can the mouse's timid nibbling stave
The learning linguist cameramaniac sings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
The genealogist with field and fess
With gravity at gravity's great cog
And played their mountain croquet jungle chess
Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum