1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
3replies like this the dumbstruck brain may tease
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10with gravity at gravity’s great cog
11on wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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