Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
Licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
Normal one aims to be and share the throne
They both are right not untamed mutterings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
Such merchandise a melancholy brings
Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
With quill white-collared through his life will jog
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
They're kings we're mammal-cousins hi ho hum