1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
3the understanding critic firstly sees
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone

5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave

9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11socrates watched his hemlock effervesce

12But I can understand you Brogher Gog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14the best of all things to an end must come