1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
3old corned-beef’s rusty armour spreads disease
4with cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6signalling gauchos very rarely shave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8to break a rule Britannia’s might might waive
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10one tongue will do to keep the verse agog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
12We’ll suffocate before the epilogue
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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