Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
Through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
Signalling gauchos very rarely shave
A daring baron pockets precious Mings
Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
A bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
And let you off from your opinions glum
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum