Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
His exaltation shocked both youth and crone
He bent right down and well what did he seize
And empty cages show life's bird has flown
It's one of many horrid happenings
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
Such merchandise a melancholy brings
To break a rule Britannia's might might waive
The peasants's skirts on rainy days she'd tress
A bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
To prove mamma an adult with a tress
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum