Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
When masons clutch the breath we held on loan
He bent right down and well what did he seize
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
O Parthenon you hold the charger's strings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
He's gone to London how the echo rings
Thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
A bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
On wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
The Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum