1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4that suede ferments is not at all well known
5They both are right not untamed mutterings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10with gravity at gravity’s great cog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
13on fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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