Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
The answer is they could be twins full-grown
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
In salads all chew grubs before they've wings
Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
Watching manure and compost coalesce
Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
A wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb