1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
5How it suprised us pale grey underlings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8in purest cradels tha’s how they behave
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14in cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?
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