Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
He bent right down and well what did he seize
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
They both are right not untamed mutterings
When flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
The nicest kids for strickiest toffees crave
Platonic Greece was not so talentless
A bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
Watching manure and compost coalesce
We'll suffocate before the epilogue
And let you off from your opinions glum
They're kings we're mammal-cousins hi ho hum