Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
His exaltation shocked both youth and crone
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
And empty cages show life's bird has flown
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
Whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
That every verbal shock aims to deprave
Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
With gravity at gravity's great cog
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
Southern baroque's seductive dialogue
Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
The best of all things to an end must come