1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
5Old Galileo’s Pisan offerings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7a daring baron pockets precious Mings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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