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
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7a daring baron pockets precious Mings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress
12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14in cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?
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