Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
When masons clutch the breath we held on loan
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
Which neither time nor tide can long postpone
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
With quill white-collared through his life will jog
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
Do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
They're kings we're mammal-cousins hi ho hum