1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone

5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave

9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address

12But I can understand you Brogher Gog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14a wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb