Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
His exaltation shocked both youth and crone
He bent right down and well what did he seize
And empty cages show life's bird has flown
Old Galileo's Pisan offerings
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
The genealogist with field and fess
And starve the sniveling baby like a dog
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum