1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone

5The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave

9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess

12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14the bell tolls fee-less fi-less fo-less fum