Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
That suede ferments is not at all well known
How it suprised us pale grey underlings
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
They both are right not unformed smatterings
Thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
The peasants's skirts on rainy days she'd tress
With gravity at gravity's great cog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
And let you off from your opinions glum
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum