Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
The answer is they could be twins full-grown
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
Which neither time nor tide can long postpone
It's one of many horrid happenings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
With quill white-collared through his life will jog
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
The best of all things to an end must come