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
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown

5They both are right not untamed mutterings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8to break a rule Britannia’s might might waive

9Platonic Greece was not so talentless
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes

12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13on fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
14fried grilled black pudding’s still the world’s best yum