Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
His exaltation shocked both youth and crone
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
Whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
An icicle of frozen marrow pings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
The peasants's skirts on rainy days she'd tress
A bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
Socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
We'll suffocate before the epilogue
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum