1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
3the understanding critic firstly sees
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
5It’s one of many horrid happenings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10a bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
11watching manure and compost coalesce
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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