Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
The learning linguist cameramaniac sings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
The peasants's skirts on rainy days she'd tress
Shallots and sharks'fins face the smould'ring log
On wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
We'll suffocate before the epilogue
Do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
Soliloquies predict great things old chum