Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
Through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
And loudly sang off-key without a tone
How it suprised us pale grey underlings
Signalling gauchos very rarely shave
A daring baron pockets precious Mings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
Bard I adore your endless monologue
Though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum