1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2his exaltation shocked both youth and crone
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4and empty cages show life’s bird has flown

5Old Galileo’s Pisan offerings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave

9Platonic Greece was not so talentless
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes

12But I can understand you Brogher Gog
13poor reader smile before your lips go numb
14the best of all things to an end must come