Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
When masons clutch the breath we held on loan
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
It's one of many horrid happenings
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
Th'outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
Thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
A piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
The Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
The best of all things to an end must come