1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4with cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6nought can the mouse’s timid nibbling stave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8in purest cradels tha’s how they behave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11watching manure and compost coalesce
12We’ll suffocate before the epilogue
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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