Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
For tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
Which neither time nor tide can long postpone
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
He's gone to London how the echo rings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
The wolf devours both sheep and shepherdess
One tongue will do to keep the verse agog
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum