1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3the understanding critic firstly sees
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6filching the lolly country thrift helped save
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11to prove mamma an adult with a tress
12One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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