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
4while sharks to let’s say potted shrimps are prone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10with gravity at gravity’s great cog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14fried grilled black pudding’s still the world’s best yum
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