Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
He bent right down and well what did he seize
That suede ferments is not at all well known
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
With sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
An icicle of frozen marrow pings
Thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum