Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
When masons clutch the breath we held on loan
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
That suede ferments is not at all well known
How it suprised us pale grey underlings
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
An icicle of frozen marrow pings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
The wolf devours both sheep and shepherdess
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
But I can understand you Brogher Gog
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
Soliloquies predict great things old chum