Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
His exaltation shocked both youth and crone
His toga rumpled high above his knees
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
He's gone to London how the echo rings
That every verbal shock aims to deprave
The peasants's skirts on rainy days she'd tress
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
But I can understand you Brogher Gog
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
Soliloquies predict great things old chum