1At five precisely out went La Marquise
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11on wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
12But I can understand you Brogher Gog
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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