Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
For tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
And loudly sang off-key without a tone
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
Nought can the mouse's timid nibbling stave
Th'outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
The genealogist with field and fess
With gravity at gravity's great cog
And played their mountain croquet jungle chess
Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
They're kings we're mammal-cousins hi ho hum