1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
5O Parthenon you hold the charger’s strings
6whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10one tongue will do to keep the verse agog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14fried grilled black pudding’s still the world’s best yum
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