1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4that suede ferments is not at all well known
5The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress
12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13poor reader smile before your lips go numb
14the best of all things to an end must come
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