Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
Whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
In salads all chew grubs before they've wings
To break a rule Britannia's might might waive
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
Bard I adore your endless monologue
Though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum