Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
Licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
And empty cages show life's bird has flown
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
An icicle of frozen marrow pings
To break a rule Britannia's might might waive
When dried the terrapin can naught express
One tongue will do to keep the verse agog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
Bard I adore your endless monologue
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum