Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
The Turks said just take anything you please
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
It's one of many horrid happenings
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
Such merchandise a melancholy brings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
One tongue will do to keep the verse agog
Watching manure and compost coalesce
Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum