Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
For tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
He bent right down and well what did he seize
And loudly sang off-key without a tone
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
Such merchandise a melancholy brings
Thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
The peasants's skirts on rainy days she'd tress
A bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
The Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
In cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?