Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
For tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
His toga rumpled high above his knees
And empty cages show life's bird has flown
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
Signalling gauchos very rarely shave
Such merchandise a melancholy brings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
The peasants's skirts on rainy days she'd tress
A piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
Watching manure and compost coalesce
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
Though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum