1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3the understanding critic firstly sees
4with cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10what things we did we went the whole darned hog
11to prove mamma an adult with a tress
12But I can understand you Brogher Gog
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
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