Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
The Turks said just take anything you please
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
With sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
They both are right not unformed smatterings
Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
With quill white-collared through his life will jog
From cool Parnassus down to wild Loch Ness
Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
The best of all things to an end must come