Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
The Turks said just take anything you please
That suede ferments is not at all well known
Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
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
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
A piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
Bard I adore your endless monologue
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum