1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2his nasal ecstasy beats best Cologne
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
5How it suprised us pale grey underlings
6nought can the mouse’s timid nibbling stave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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