1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2when masons clutch the breath we held on loan
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
5The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8in purest cradels tha’s how they behave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
14soliloquies predict great things old chum
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