Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
Nought can the mouse's timid nibbling stave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
For burning bushes never fish forgave
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
A piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
Watching manure and compost coalesce
Southern baroque's seductive dialogue
The Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
In cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?