Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
Old corned-beef's rusty armour spreads disease
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
It's one of many horrid happenings
When flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
Shallots and sharks'fins face the smould'ring log
And played their mountain croquet jungle chess
But I can understand you Brogher Gog
Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
In cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?