Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
Since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
And loudly sang off-key without a tone
They both are right not untamed mutterings
Whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
The genealogist with field and fess
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
Do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
The bell tolls fee-less fi-less fo-less fum