1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10with gravity at gravity’s great cog
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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