1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
5It’s one of many horrid happenings
6whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
12But I can understand you Brogher Gog
13ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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