Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
O Parthenon you hold the charger's strings
Filching the lolly country thrift helped save
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
The nicest kids for strickiest toffees crave
The genealogist with field and fess
A bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
Watching manure and compost coalesce
But I can understand you Brogher Gog
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum