Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
His exaltation shocked both youth and crone
The Turks said just take anything you please
While sharks to let's say potted shrimps are prone
How it suprised us pale grey underlings
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
In purest cradels tha's how they behave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
And let you off from your opinions glum
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum