1At five precisely out went La Marquise
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4while sharks to let’s say potted shrimps are prone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11watching manure and compost coalesce
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
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