1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone

5It’s one of many horrid happenings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave

9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11on wheels the tourist follows hos hostess

12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13poor reader smile before your lips go numb
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum