1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
5O Parthenon you hold the charger’s strings
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12Southern baroque’s seductive dialogue
13poor reader smile before your lips go numb
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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