Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
The answer is they could be twins full-grown
The understanding critic firstly sees
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
Signalling gauchos very rarely shave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
With quill white-collared through his life will jog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
We'll suffocate before the epilogue
Ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
In cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?