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
4and empty cages show life’s bird has flown

5O Parthenon you hold the charger’s strings
6the North Wind Bites into his architrave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave

9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10what things we did we went the whole darned hog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess

12We’ll suffocate before the epilogue
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum