1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3the understanding critic firstly sees
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone

5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7th’outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
8in purest cradels tha’s how they behave

9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress

12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14soliloquies predict great things old chum