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Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
For tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
And loudly sang off-key without a tone
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
In salads all chew grubs before they've wings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
From cool Parnassus down to wild Loch Ness
But I can understand you Brother Gog
The Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
Fried grilled black pudding's still whe world's best yum