Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
His nasal ecstasy beats best Cologne
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
And loudly sang off-key without a tone
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
When flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
In purest cradels tha's how they behave
The peasants's skirts on rainy days she'd tress
A bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
Socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
The best of all things to an end must come