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
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
They both are right not untamed mutterings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
Thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
The peasants's skirts on rainy days she'd tress
With quill white-collared through his life will jog
From cool Parnassus down to wild Loch Ness
Southern baroque's seductive dialogue
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
And lessors' dates have all too short a sum