1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone

5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8in purest cradels tha’s how they behave

9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10one tongue will do to keep the verse agog
11watching manure and compost coalesce

12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
14soliloquies predict great things old chum